Welcome To The Club
by krysalys
Summary: The Agency is contracted to find a stolen experiment. Meanwhile, Darien's experiencing unexpected and not so welcome side effects from the gland...
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Same as every other IMan fanfic writer. Any new people are figments of my twisted psyche, all of the characters from the show unfortunately belong to the greedy fools that refuse to share. Don't bother suing me, 'cause I have less than no money.

Um… rating? Urf, I have no friggin' clue. Let's shoot for PG-13. There is violence, swearing, many people getting shot, and lots of Darien getting the shit kicked out of him. There is a brief scene where Darien's horniness gets a _little_ out of hand. But only just a little. ;-)

Author's Note: I started writing this immediately after the "Flash To Bang" episode in TV Season Two. It started out as a simple writing exercise, and then blossomed into an effort at screenwriting (hence all of the present tensing), until it became a full-blown obsessive-compulsive thing. A year later, after much editing and quite a few writing breaks, I'd finally finished the story. Lo and behold… it was a friggin _book_! Be forewarned, in MSWord the entire story is over 200 pages long. grins

Feedback is always appreciated, and all I ask is that you let me know if you're going to archive any of my fics; because then I can at least let you know if I've been tweaking the little suckers.

Oh, and one more thing: whenever I make reference to The Official in any way other than by his name or title, I use the Royal He/Him in order to differentiate between Him (The 'Fish) and him (any other male in the story). Just so's you don't get _too_ confused…

No portion of this story may be performed, reproduced, or used by any means, or quoted or published in any medium without the prior written consent of Kristen N. Eshleman.

Copyright 2001

All rights reserved

8th June, 2001

Welcome To The Club

Darien's opening words of wisdom:

"Hamlet once told his buddy Horatio: 'There are more things in heaven and earth than can be dreamt of in your philosophy.' You know, it's funny how I'd never really understood that until recently. But then, it's not all that surprising to see how your view of the world changes after a little brain surgery..."

Thursday, 8:30am

An impromptu meeting is being held inside The Official's office on an unusually hot and muggy morning. Luckily, Eberts was able to procure a rotating fan on a stand, and it was blasting full bore on the overheated occupants of the room.

"The..." _whirrrrr_ "...information that..." _whirrrrr_ "...secured has..." _whirrrrr_ "...makes Him" The Official "nervous," Eberts helpfully clarifies.

The group he's addressing includes The Official, Monroe, Hobbes, and an Agency operative standing guard at the opposite end of the room from The Official's desk.

He shoots His assistant a nasty look, under which the reticent man blanches slightly as his gaze falls.

"_That_ can't be good..." Hobbes mutters as Darien and Claire enter, she having just finished taking some of his blood for testing. They are closely followed/herded by another Agency guard, who shuts the door behind him as soon as they are in the room. The first Agency guard comes from the front of the room and joins the other at the doors to physically block them.

"What can't be good?" and "Couldn't you wait one freakin' minute for me to get a Band-Aid?" Claire and Darien ask simultaneously.

He's holding his right arm folded up against his chest. Two fingers of his left hand are pinched in the elbow's fold, holding a small gauze pad in place.

Monroe is perched on the edge of The Official's desk, quietly conferring with Him on some notes He had recently scribbled on a notepad. Hobbes is sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk with his feet propped up on the other one. Eberts is at his customary position, behind and to the right of The Official.

"Heh-hey guys, wha's up?" Darien suddenly grins, offering his left hand to slap five with the one guard.

The man doesn't move, except to cock his head a little as if to say _'You must be shitting me'_. The gangly man drops his arm as his forced cheerfulness withers.

Meanwhile, Claire moves to sit down in the chair beside Hobbes. When he looks quizzically at her, she unceremoniously shoves his feet off of the chair and sits down with a little _"huff"_.

He looks innocently hurt, as if to say, _'Whaaaat? What'd I do?'_

Darien swivel-turns around to face The Official, asking lightly, "So what's with the muscle, boss? We in a state of emergency or something?" He flexes his right arm a little, glancing to see if it's all right to take his fingers away, and then tosses the gauze into the wastebasket that Eberts quickly holds up for him.

Claire hands him a Band-Aid that she just found in her pocket.

"_Some_thing like that..." Hobbes mutters in reply to Darien's inquiry.

Claire looks at him questioningly, and he nods his head somberly towards Monroe and The Official.

Darien swings his head around to bestow a troubled glance at Hobbes. "What? What's going on?"

"I believe _you_ should be telling me that," The Official snaps.

Baffled, Darien begins to stride towards the others, and stops when he senses the two guards swiftly stepping towards him. "What the hell are you talking about?" he brusquely demands as he scowls over his shoulder at the two men... each with cautious hands on their guns.

They resume their original positions with a jerk of The Official's head.

Darien tensely looks around for a place to sit, but of course, there isn't. So, he hops onto the table behind Claire and Hobbes and sits cross-legged (Indian style).

Just as irritated, The Official snaps, "Where were you the other night?"

Insulted, his head rears back a little. "Out. With Bobby. What's it to _you_?"

The Official's eyes dart to Hobbes. "Is this true, Hobbes?"

Put on the spot, he hesitates. "Yyyees."

"Where?" He growls with increasing impatience.

"Like I said, _out_," Darien retorts as he glares at his partner to back him up.

He tilts his head back in Darien's direction. "Yeah... shopping."

"What for?" Eberts pipes in matter-of-factly.

Darien scowls first at The Official and then Eberts, just a bit insulted that they were treating him like they had when he first arrived at The Agency.

Hobbes answers reluctantly, "Gear."

"What kind of gear?" The Official demands.

"The kind I use for deep sea fishing," Darien quips sarcastically. At the boss's gimlet glare, he expands belligerently. "I was getting stuff for work. Y'know, a lock pick set, climbing cables..." he waves his hands, illustrating what he felt was obvious.

Hobbes nods slightly, and adds in a low voice to Claire, "Yeah, stuff he thinks he needs so he can 'keep in practice'." He sounds as if he's dryly paraphrasing his friend from a previous conversation.

Darien jerks his head back a little. "'Keep? In... practice'?"

He bobs his head to the side quickly. "Ya know, so you don't lose those a_ma_zing skills of yours..."

Darien thumps his partner on the shoulder, not really taking the jibe seriously. "Hey, I was a helluva good thief..."

"You would've been a lot better if you'd lost the conscience..." comes the rejoinder in a low and sarcastic tone.

"Alright, alright, that's e_nough_!" The Official barks, smacking His palms down on the desk to break off the lighthearted bantering before Darien can retort. "Now. Hobbes. You and Fawkes were together for how long the other night?"

He absently picks at his fingers as he thoughtfully tries to remember. "Well, went out for dinner, then the Outfitter's; after that, hung out at Fawkes', watched some movies..."

"What was the _time_frame, Robert?" Eberts prods.

Hobbes shoots him an irritated glance at the interruption. "I was just getting to that, _E_berts." He returns to his tallying, eyes thoughtfully concentrating on a spot in the air. "...Supper around seven, at Fawkes' 'til about... when? Two?" He glances at Darien, who nods a terse affirmation. "Two..." he mutters, continuing to tick off the mental list on his fingers, "I'd say, around seven... seven and a half hours," he finishes, looking back up evenly at The Official.

"You're sure," He contends in an unrelenting tone.

"Of course he's sure," Darien replies in a snide tone. "What else would he say?"

"Anything to cover _your_ ass," Monroe comments dryly.

"Not if it _means_ his ass," he shoots back.

Hobbes looks confusedly thoughtful as he tries to figure out whether or not he should be insulted or complimented by what's being said about him.

The Official's momentarily stalled (but still looks belligerent), so Claire is finally able to get a word in. "Would someone please tell us what this is all about?"

Eberts opens his mouth and takes a breath to speak, but is silenced by the sharp cutting gesture of The Official's hand. He waves the guards out of the room with the same hand, dismissing them. As the door shuts behind them, He then curtly nods to Monroe, indicating that she can begin speaking.

Eberts has a slightly pained expression on his face.

Monroe starts, unaware of his reaction to being cut off... again. "There was a break-in at a research facility in Virginia the other day. The place was firebombed, but they managed to salvage some of the security footage. Eberts?" She glances at the man questioningly, tilting her head in a voiceless request for his assistance.

Having smoothed away the outward expression of his feelings, he swings a TV/VCR cart around and starts shutting the shades.

She stands, walks over and places a tape in the VCR. She picks up the remote, returns to the far side of The Official's desk and pushes play just as Eberts finishes closing the blinds. He then retires to his spot behind Him.

At first, there's static and broken footage, but then the picture calms and clears to show various camera angles of people being knocked down, shot, and then of a limp, sheet-covered figure being carried out of a smoking building and laid into a waiting helicopter by...

nothing.

Claire's reaction is a sharp intake of breath, her brief expression of shock smoothing to one of concerned yet piqued curiosity, while Hobbes lets out a long, low and almost silent whistle.

Darien stiffens, his eyes widening a little in realization.

"Ar_naud_..." Hobbes breathes in disgust.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Darien mutters, rolling up his eyes as he tilts back his head.

Thursday, 9:15am

Darien and Hobbes are arguing in Claire's lab. The door slides open, and Monroe enters with a carry-on bag slung over her shoulder. She looks increasingly impatient. "Hobbes, let's _go_. We don't want to miss the plane."

Darien continues to argue with Hobbes, pausing only to shoot a cryptic glare at her before glancing pleadingly at Claire for support. "Tell me again why you two get to go, and I've gotta stay here?"

Hobbes looks guiltily at Claire, who shakes her head and turns her back on the whole scene, pretending to work on some of her research on her computer.

"Like I said, partner, I want you to stay here and check out what spots you think your ol' buddy Arnaud would hang at..."

"He's not my 'buddy' Hobbes," Darien snaps. "And what if he's still there in Virginia? You might need me to help find him..."

He puts up both hands in an effort to mollify his friend. "He's not in Virginia anymore," he answers confidently.

Monroe breaks in with some added warmth in her voice. "All the intel we have points to de Fehrn moving the stolen research somewhere on the West Coast; possibly Nevada, New Mexico or even here."

"So?" Darien breaks in, exasperated.

"So, it makes sense for you to stay here and look for him," she finishes.

Hobbes nods. "Right! And all we're doing is a little information recon so we have a better idea of what our not-so-good Doctor is up to this time."

Monroe breaks in again. "It's not worth wasting your..." she pauses, thinking of the right PC words to say, "...special skills … on."

Claire comments from her chair without taking her eyes off of the computer screen. "Plus, I'd feel more comfortable with you staying close to the lab for now. Your blood work from this morning has me a little concerned."

His head swings around at the mention of 'concerned'.

"... aaand I want to monitor you more closely over the next few hours..." she continues.

"'Concerned'? What's _that_ supposed to mean?" He backs up a step and raises a hand to the back of his head, rubbing it absently. "Please don't tell me there's something wrong with this thing again."

Claire swivels her chair around, quickly stands up and walks over to him. "No, no ..." she lets out a quick, sharp sigh, "...well, not... ex_act_ly." Looking him straight in the eyes, she continues. "I'm concerned about these abnormal hormonal levels. This is simply precautionary, Darien. I just want to be sure you're all right."

Meanwhile, Hobbes has been surreptitiously inching towards the door where Monroe awaits, tapping her fingers on the doorsill. "Yeah, so, there you go. Look, I'll see you in a couple days, Fawkes. Hey, Keep," he nods at Claire, "you take good care of my partner now, okay?" And with that, he practically shoots through the door.

Monroe follows after she rolls her eyes at his seemingly cowardly behavior.

Darien opens his mouth to protest, but the door slides shut behind the other two agents.

Thursday, 2:30pm

Monroe and Hobbes are getting off of a small airplane on a little used runway at the edge of the Newport News/Williamsburg International Airport in Virginia.

She swiftly walks over to a car with government plates sitting on the runway. There are two soldiers waiting/standing guard near the car, who snap to attention when they see her. Hobbes follows a little more sedately as he takes in his surroundings. He looks as if he's searching for something specific, other than the two guards.

She opens the trunk of the car and tosses her bag inside. She pushes the lid down until it's shut (but not latched), and notices his behavior as she opens the driver's side door. She leans on it and asks with a note of resigned-to-suffering patience in her voice, "What are you looking for?"

He absently turns his head towards her and responds, "I thought we were meeting someone here."

She shakes her head and gestures impatiently for him to get into the car. "No, we're meeting the agent in charge at the facility. Would you get in the car Hobbes, we're running behind schedule."

He picks up his pace, and deposits his bag in the trunk before climbing into the passenger seat.

She's already seated, belted, and has turned on the car while he's closing the trunk. Once he's in and belted, she drives off of the small runway and down an unpaved access road towards the highway. The uniformed soldiers step back to the edge of the runway and blankly salute Monroe as she drives by. She smiles and politely waves an acknowledgement back to them.

Hobbes gives her a darkly inquisitive/pensive look that goes unnoticed. It's plain that he's thinking that she must have her fingers in quite a lot of pies.

As they enter the highway, the onramp shows the route number(s) - 143 to 64 to 134, and they almost immediately pass under a set of the green signs stating the next few exit numbers and names. The sign in the middle says **'Langley A.F.B., 10 miles**'.

Thursday, 10:30am

In the lab, Darien is sitting in one of The Keeper's chairs, with it tilted back and his feet propped on the left rear edge of the fish tank table. Her computer is almost parallel and to his right. He's deep in thought, tossing little pieces of scrap paper at the wastebasket at the end of the tank's table that he's facing.

Claire walks in, reading the top sheet from a sheaf of papers. She looks up briefly, then momentarily stops just inside of the door as it slides shut.

He's so deep in thought that he hasn't looked up.

"Darien, what are you doing here? I thought you went home over an hour ago."

He tosses another wad of paper at the basket. It circles the rim of the almost-full can before it falls in. He looks up at her as if wrenching his thoughts back from a thousand miles away and somberly replies, "I wanted to see if you had anything more on those tests you're doing."

She slowly shakes her head as she continues her way in to the room. She walks towards the fridge and places the test results on the exam chair. She opens the fridge and pulls out a small white container with a spoon. Turning back to the chair as the fridge door swings shut, she picks up the papers in her other hand and walks over to her computer.

"Not just yet. I won't have anything for another couple of hours. I told you I would call as soon as I had something," she gently chides.

She sits down by her computer, and sets the papers on the counter to her left. She then opens the small plastic container, and spoons some of the contents into her mouth.

He glances over at her, his face scrunching up in a moue of distaste. "Do I... want to know what that, _stuff_ is?"

"Tuna salad." She waves the empty spoon at the computer. "I do have a little more on your blood work, but I was waiting for the latest results before talking to you."

He drops his feet to the floor and swivels the chair around to face the computer. "So, what's up?"

She sets the tuna salad on the top of the monitor and types a little, bringing up a chart on the screen. "You remember that the gland is chromosomally female...?"

He nods a little sheepishly, remembering the incident with the invisible 'Yeti'.

She continues. "The latest results show a significant increase of estrogen in your bloodstream, which makes me wonder about a few things."

He scrutinizes her from the corner of his eye. "Like, what kinds of things?"

She absently tucks a wayward lock of hair behind her right ear, quickly pops another spoonful of tuna salad in her mouth, and resumes typing on the keyboard. A word file opens on the computer screen: notes from the study of the gland before it was implanted in Darien.

She scrolls through some of the document before pausing at a specific paragraph, stopping, and turning her head to peer closely at his face.

He reads the paragraph, seemingly unaware that she's studying his face intently. He's looking a bit flushed. As a matter of fact, he's just to the point of breaking out in a fine sweat.

She tilts her head a little, and begins to raise the back of her right hand to his forehead.

He flicks his eyes to her and asks a little breathlessly, "Claire... _what_?"

She hesitates, and then finishes raising her hand to feel his temperature. "Have you been feeling... warmer than usual, lately?"

He blinks, thinking. "Yeah, a little bit. It's nothing; I figured it was a cold or something, with the weather changing like it's been."

Her eyebrows furrow slightly. She looks back at the computer screen and types a few commands, bringing up another window and document.

He cranes his head a little to see what she's looking at, since her head is blocking the screen.

She glances at him again with a pensive look. "As you know, there was some speculation as to what effects the gland would have on various areas of the brain... as we discovered when it reacted with your pineal gland..." she trails off, since she notices that he's starting to look worried.

"Claire, would you _please_ just spit it out?"

She hesitates a moment before almost blurting, "I think... somehow, the gland may be sending you into something much like... 'heat'," she ventures cautiously.

There's a split second of silence. Then, Darien snorts in laughter, his head almost hitting hers with the force of his amusement.

She raises an eyebrow, understanding the humor he perceives in her words, but she's a little too concerned to join in just yet.

He calms down briefly. "Ya know, Hobbes _is_ quite a dish. Do ya think he'd find me attractive?" he wistfully ponders as he twists a strand of his hair.

A _'Who farted?'_ expression washes across her face.

"Nah, he wouldn't even notice me." The thought sets him off again, and he futilely attempts to suppress his laughter.

Lips slightly pursed and one eyebrow raised, Claire stands and steps over to the examination area. Picking up an ear thermometer, she stands by the exam chair and pats it lightly, indicating that he should come over and sit down.

He shakes his head, wipes the one or two tears from his eyes, and rises. Still snorting softly, he strides over and plops down on the chair. With a huge shit-eating grin on his face, he asks her, "So, after telling me that, you think it's wise to start playing 'Doctor' with me? You think it's... safe?"

With an irritated grimace, she ever so un-gently sticks the thermometer in his ear.

He flinches a little, muttering "_Hey_..." as the lab door slides open.

Enter The Official, looking as He always does... constipated. "So, how's my star agent doing?" He asks with false boisterousness.

Claire shrugs slightly, craning her head to look at the read-out on the thermometer.

Darien gives up his lamentable effort at looking serious. "I dunno," he grins. "You'd better sit down for this one, Chief."

The Official glances at Claire, puzzled.

She answers with reluctance. "I'm not quite sure what to say. Darien's fine, for now, but the gland... Well, it seems to be stimulating his hormonal production in such a way..."

Darien involuntarily interrupts with a soft snort when she says 'stimulating'.

She shoots him an increasingly impatient glare. "That's _not_ what I meant..."

"What didn't you mean?" The Official glowers.

Darien shakes his head a few times. "Go ahead, tell him." He notices her escalating annoyance at his juvenile behavior. "C'mon, Claire, you gotta admit, it does sound a bit silly..."

She rolls her eyes, turns, and coolly slaps the thermometer down on the rolling tray table holding her other testing instruments.

The Official shoots a quelling glare at Darien, who in turn meekly drops his head while raising his legs to leisurely wrap his hands around his knees. The Official can still see a smile peeking out, though.

"So, what's the problem?" He asks, ignoring Darien.

"The gland seems to be interfering with his hormonal production, and could be sending him into, well... heat, ...not unlike an animal," she responds.

He blinks. Now it looks like He might be trying to quell some amusement that's attempting to rise in Him. Either that, or some gas from that Chinese stuff He ate earlier... "And how will this affect him over the long run?"

She hesitates before venturing, "I'm not sure. That's why I want him to stay close to the lab for now. Hopefully, with a few more tests, I'll get a better picture of what's going on over the next few days."

"Do you foresee any difficulty with his use of the gland?"

She shakes her head thoughtfully. "Again, I can't be sure until I run some more tests."

"Will he be able to run his... 'errands'?"

She nods slowly. "Yyeess... As long as he checks in every few hours or so, and if he can manage to keep from going invisible."

Darien's amusement fades over the course of the discussion. He looks a bit vexed at being discussed as if he weren't even in the room, so he swings his legs over the side of the exam chair and slides off. He starts towards the door, but Claire stops him with a touch on his shoulder.

"What?" he asks a bit abruptly.

"Darien, please remember to call me later. I'll have more information on your blood work then, so..." she trails off, noting that his thoughts have drifted far away.

"Yeah, yeah, I know the drill." He waves absently at his Keeper and meanders towards the lab door.

As it opens, The Official calls out, "Fawkes, where are you going?"

He turns and shrugs his shoulders slightly. "Where else? Gonna kick over some rocks and see if Arnaud's crawled under any of 'em."

The Official and the Keeper exchange cryptic looks as the door slides shut behind him.


	2. Chapter Two

Thursday, 1:30pm (according to Darien's watch)

Darien leaves a store with a to-go cup of cappuccino in his right hand. Lunchtime pedestrian traffic has lightened in the business district. As it turns out in an amazing 'coincidence', he's not far from the new Cerberus Corporation Headquarters.

He ambles down the street, occasionally sipping from his cup and munching on some item of food. He seems to not have noticed the two men in casual suits following almost a half block behind him.

He passes by the Cerberus offices without pausing, nor shows any sign that he was familiar with the place. He walks for another one to one and a half blocks, casually tosses the empty cappuccino cup and food wrapper into a trashcan, and suddenly ducks into a doorway as he Quicksilvers.

The two men following him immediately break up when they lose visual contact, with one crossing the street and the other continuing as he was. They also casually pull sunglasses out of their pockets once Darien's ducked out of sight, and put them on. As the one man passes by the doorway that Darien had dodged into, he turns his head to scan the entranceway and the shop within, but there are no thermal variations out of the ordinary.

He turns to the other man across the street. Their eyes meet, and he minutely shakes his head. No Darien.

The other man nods a confirmation, indicating that he can't "see" Darien either.

Meanwhile, the in the alley, the back door of the shop next to the one Darien entered swings shut. There's no one there.

He briefly un-Quicksilvers in the alley behind the Cerberus offices as he crouches to look thoughtfully at the alley exit-door's lock. He pulls out a lock-picking kit with a little smile (remembering the argument with The Official over his choice in field gear), pulls out two small picks and inserts them into the lock.

A little scraping noise is heard, then an audible 'click', and a green light goes off on the panel beside the door. The picks smoothly Quicksilver, followed by the rest of his body. The door swings open, and then shuts softly.

Thursday, 1:45pm

Darien enters the third floor of the Cerberus building from the stairwell. He walks past a series of closed doors until he sees, off to his left, a door slightly ajar. It opens to an intimate, comfortably decorated conference room emitting the sounds of a lively conversation. One voice is the head of Cerberus, Jared Stark, another is female, and the last sounds lamentably familiar.

_Oh, great,_ he thinks. _Arnaud..._

He peeks through the door opening and catches a partial glimpse of Stark standing to the right of a young woman sitting stiffly on an overstuffed couch with her legs tucked up under her (and looking very uneasy). A Quicksilvered Arnaud de Fehrn stands a little off to the woman's left and is facing Stark.

Darien eases the door open a little. Their voices become more audible, and he can understand almost everything that's being said.

_What the hell is he doing here?_

Seen in profile, the woman looks fairly short (app. 5'). She's in her late twenties to early thirties, and is overweight without being obese. She's wearing thermal vision sunglasses (as is Stark), oversized medical scrubs, and has wavy collarbone-length auburn hair mostly tucked into a baseball cap (and a pony tail hanging out of the back opening). There's also a nasty bruise on her left cheekbone as well as a dressing on her right biceps - bandage for a gunshot wound. The sleeve is rolled up above the bandage so as not to rub at or bind it.

She has a melange of emotions rolling over her face: caution, fear, mistrust, confusion, pain (caused by a furious migraine and a variety of unseen bruises, as well as the gunshot wound), exhaustion, and a seething rage that just breathes from her entire body.

de Fehrn is becoming increasingly agitated, as evidenced by the lit cigarette jerking around in mid-air.

Stark looks to the young woman expectantly, and nods his head towards the other man with a raised eyebrow. She tilts her head to the side, her brows furrowing in momentary non-understanding. Then she obviously gets the inferred meaning and reaches out a hand towards the mercenary's Quicksilvered profile. She makes physical contact with his arm as she speaks softly and firmly to him. Darien can't make out what she's saying.

Unnoticed is a small, bright spark that flashes when they touch. She jumps a little at the brief shock, withdraws her hand with a frown, and jerks it a couple of times as if she were shaking off water.

de Fehrn stills at the touch on his arm, gazes down at the woman, and then flops down beside her on the couch. "Oh, all right!" he mutters angrily.

The cigarette glows brightly, then it's dashed out in a nearby ashtray. Smoke sighs from his invisible lips.

_Drama queen,_ comes Darien's acidic thought on the mercenary's grandiose behavior.

"Now then, why don't we table this until we can get Mrs. Daniels settled in?" comments Stark, looking quietly satisfied with what had just occurred.

Sitting in a chair on the other side of a coffee table across from de Fehrn and the young woman (Daniels), Stark picks up a small ring of keys and a thin folder. "These are the keys to your car and apartment... at least until you get settled in. Then you can find something more to your liking, if you wish."

"Right now, anything is better than where I was." She shivers slightly from a painfully vivid memory, then continues, realizing something about what Stark had just said.

"Did you... actually get the car I told you about? I didn't think you were, you know, serious..."

He cuts in. "Well, I was. During your stay with us, you will receive all of the standard benefits we give our employees, which include a car and fully furnished residence. Mrs. Daniels... may I call you Amanda?"

She nods demurely, murmuring, "Technically, I'm a miss. Now."

He frowns in puzzlement, and she explains. "Widows in my family commonly go by their maiden name. And mine's MacKenna."

He nods in acknowledgement. "All right. Amanda, we want to ease you back into public life as smoothly as possible, and that means we'll do whatever is necessary to make you feel comfortable."

_Could he sound any more like a salesman?_ Darien thinks with contempt.

"I don't know what to say," she begins, stunned by the generosity.

"A thank you would be in good form," de Fehrn replies dryly.

She twists her head towards his Quicksilvered form and squints her eyes at him in mild amusement. "Of course," is her light reply. "But..." her expression clouds. "I hope you can understand why this is so overwhelming for me. To be treated, like this... after being in there for so many years..."

Stark raises a hand, interrupting her. "Please, don't bother. Now, why don't we let the Doctor here direct you to your new home so you can get settled in? I'm sure you're quite tired after the... 'excitement' of the past few days." He grins lopsidedly.

A tiny smile ghosts across her face, and disappears. "I... have two more questions." She hesitates, then continues after Stark nods for her to go on. "Is there some sort of... a pond, or a large pool near the apartment?"

He nods. "As a matter of fact, the previous tenant had a fountain installed in the backyard. There's a privacy fence with trees and shrubbery around it, so you shouldn't have anything to worry about."

She ducks her head a little. "Thank you."

"And what was your other question?" He queries amiably.

She stares directly into his eyes. "Why?"

He frowns. "Why what?"

"Why me? What do you want, with _me_?" Her battered face braces for the worst.

He quietly regards her for a moment, and Darien notices that she's becoming more and more unsettled.

"I won't lie to you; we do have a vested interest in the research you're involved in," he begins. "But I found your living conditions quite distressing. You should have more control over the procedures, and be rewarded well for your contributions to the research."

Her jaw slackens in disbelief while he's speaking. She's at a complete loss for words.

She wasn't expecting _that_.

"Now, then, Doctor, would you like to show Mrs. ... _Miss_," he corrects himself with a small bowing nod, "MacKenna to her car? I'm sure you two have much to discuss during your drive."

He stands, followed by de Fehrn and (more slowly) MacKenna. He hands the key ring and the folder to her, and she regards them with bemusement, as if she were expecting to wake up from a dream at any moment.

Darien quickly backs away from the door, and retreats behind an unlocked closet door partway down the hall. Meanwhile, he overhears de Fehrn and MacKenna saying their farewells to Stark before they leave the conference room. They start slowly down the hall in his direction. She's limping a bit, as if she was recently in a hell of a brawl, or _some_thing like that...

He quickly and silently pushes his door almost shut as the two pass by on their way to the elevator at the end of the hall.

After they've passed, he pulls his door open slightly to see if the way is clear. It seems to be, and he comes out of the room and returns to the alley he entered the building from. As the exit door swings shut, he un-Quicksilvers two-thirds of the way down the alley to the street.

It's 2:10pm. He peeks around the corner of the building. Seeing no obvious Chrysalis agents about, he steps out onto the sidewalk and strides quickly in the direction that de Fehrn and MacKenna went. He walks around the corner of the building, which is at an intersection.

Almost a block away, he sees MacKenna seated in the driver's side of an emerald green Volkswagen Bug and just closing the door. The passenger door swings shut a moment afterwards. The car turns on, and she haltingly pulls out as if this were the first time she's driven in a long while. Then, as she accidentally cuts off another car (it honks), she peels out into traffic and is almost immediately swallowed by the traffic.

"Great, she drives like Hobbes," Darien dryly comments as he darts across the street towards his own car. He gets in and follows her.

Thursday, 4:00pm

In Virginia, Hobbes and Monroe arrive at the Shop a half an hour late. They pull up to the front of the main building, where two men are standing by the front door. One is oddly like Eberts in looks and demeanor, and both are obviously lifetime government servants.

As Hobbes starts to open his door, the Eberts-look-alike takes the handle and pulls it open deferentially. He waves his free hand at Hobbes, who steps out of the car. He regards the man with amusement, while the other waits for Monroe and then raises his hand to shake hers.

"Agent Monroe?" he asks, shaking her hand before he turns towards Hobbes. "And Agent Hobbes?"

Hobbes dips his head slightly in acknowledgement, and the other man continues.

"I'm Agent Barnes. This," he waves his left hand at the Eberts look-alike. "is Agent Noble, my assistant. I'm the Director of this facility, at least until our superiors in Washington appoint a new one."

Monroe walks around the front of the car with Barnes. The four agents merge and walk through the front doors of the building.

They walk through a lobby bustling with agents in suits and plainclothes, carrying boxes, cleaning supplies and various pieces of equipment. The place looks eerily new.

"So, what exactly went on here?" she asks as she watches an older woman pushing a laundry cart full of smashed electronic equipment and appliances. The woman notices her regard, and nods tersely to her as she passes by.

"And what happened to the old Director?" Hobbes quickly adds before Barnes can answer.

Monroe shoots him an irritated glare, but Agent Noble answers smoothly, "Actually, there's an answer to both of your questions..."

"Yes, but let's wait to discuss this in my office. This way, please," Agent Barnes finishes as he leads them down a short side corridor to a door with a piece of paper taped on it with the words "Barnes, Director Pro-Tem" written in permanent marker.

As they all walk in, Monroe and Hobbes see that the "office" is more like a storage room, with some boxes and stacks of papers shoved roughly aside to make room for a chair, a small desk and a set of two chairs in front of it.

Agent Barnes walks behind the desk and sits down.

Agent Noble waits for the other two to sit down in the chairs before he closes the office door and takes up his spot beside the desk. He rifles through a small stack of files on top of some boxes, and comes up with two folders - one very thick and full to the point of rupturing, and the other very thin. He hands them to Barnes, who quickly puts them down and flips open the thin one.

"I apologize for the clutter, but we're still cleaning up after the incident a few days ago."

Hobbes casually leans back in his chair, crosses his ankle over his knee, and asks, "So, what... exactly did happen with this... 'incident'?"

Barnes pauses, and Noble answers carefully, "I would like to remind you that everything you see here, including this facility, does not exist. Whatever you may find during your investigation may only be divulged to Agent Barnes, or myself."

Hobbes looks slightly bemused. "Meaning that whatever we don't learn, we tell no one else of?"

Noble nods.

"Not even The Boss?"

He shakes his head. "Not even The Official may know."

Monroe asks, "So why would you ask our Agency to investigate this?"

Hobbes adds, "Yes. Why us?" with a practiced look of modest curiosity.

"There aren't many others better at maintaining a low profile," Barnes replies.

"Don't you usually have people in house to take care of your... sticky situations?" Hobbes asks a little suspiciously.

"We did," Barnes starts.

Noble continues. "But most of them were either killed or wounded recently."

"From the break-in," Monroe clarifies.

"From the break-_out_," confirms Noble.

"Hence, our dilemma," Barnes finishes as he shoots a cryptic glare at his assistant.

Noble turns his head slightly away, chastised for giving out more information than his boss wanted to at the moment.

Hobbes jumps on the verbal slip-up. "What do you mean by 'break-out'? I thought this was an infiltration from the outside, not the other way around."

Monroe cocks her head to the side and shoots him a baleful look.

He ignores her, keeping his eyes locked on Barnes and waiting for an answer.

Barnes looks down at the contents of the thin file laid out in front of him, closes and hands it to Monroe. Hobbes tries to intercept it, but she jerks the file away from his outstretched hand and opens it. She begins to scan the contents while he cranes his head to take a peek. Barnes begins speaking, satisfied with his redirection of Hobbes' attention.

"Most of the project information is classified, so I had Agent Noble assemble that file," he indicates the file Monroe is holding, "for you."

She finishes her quick scan of the file, shuts it, and casually hands it to Hobbes as she looks at Barnes. "There's not much in there for us to go on."

Noble nods as Barnes casually hands the thick file back to him. He replies as he takes it in hand, "Because of security concerns, right now only the Director and I know the complete details on this project."

"And it's best that we divulge as little as possible... for the moment," Barnes finishes.

"Ah, need-to-know," Hobbes winks at Monroe, who rolls her eyes at the inside reference.

"Exactly," Barnes replies non-chalantly. "So for now, what we can tell you is that all of the computer files, as well as a member of the research staff, were stolen by an unknown person or group. You watched the security footage I forwarded to your office?"

The agents both nod. "Yes, and we believe we might know huh..." she begins, but Hobbes cuts her off.

"Actually, we already have a few leads that we're investigating right now, but we won't have anything narrowed down for another couple of days or so."

While he's speaking, he shoots her a quelling look from the corner of his eye. She's looking at him with questioning annoyance.

Barnes and Noble exchange practiced neutral looks.

Noble pulls a small notepad and a pen from his inside coat pocket as he remembers something he wanted to ask. "Wasn't there supposed to be another Agent with you?" he asks, opening the notepad. He flips a few pages over, and reads from some notes he had made earlier. "An Agent... Fox?" he finishes.

"Fawkes... F. a. w. k. e. s," Hobbes corrects the other man's pronunciation. "He couldn't make it."

"Unfortunately," Monroe expands, "Agent Fawkes developed an inner ear infection, so..." she trails off with a shrug.

Barnes and Noble both nod.

"Perfectly understandable," Barnes states affably. "I remember taking a flight to Boston one year, and didn't realize I had an ear infection until we were near 2500 feet."

Hobbes does this little disgusted shaky-thing as he imagines what it must have felt like. "_eeeheuw_."

Barnes glances at him in bemusement. "Exactly," he replies with a small smile. "We had to do an emergency landing at BWI. I was lucky I didn't rupture both eardrums."

Hobbes repeats the disgusto-shake as Barnes stands, followed by Monroe.

Noble comes around from behind the desk and opens the office door for them.

She pauses momentarily to see if Hobbes is going to get up, then edges around his legs (with a grimace) and walks to the door. Barnes waves deferentially, and Hobbes shuts the folder, stands, and follows Monroe.

The Director follows them to the door, saying, "If you have any questions, or you come up with anything new, call this number," he hands Monroe a blank business card with a phone number and the word "Barnes" printed above it.

"It's a direct line, so you can call at any time."

She asks, "Before we go, would we be able to take a look at the crime scene?"

He nods and waves a hand to Noble, who steps away from Barnes' side to walk a few paces down the hallway. "Certainly. There's the lab as well as the heliport out back. Agent Noble will show you around. Good luck... and, thank you."

She shakes his hand. "We'll call in with a preliminary report tomorrow at five, Director." She begins following Noble down the corridor towards the front lobby.

Hobbes quickly shakes Barnes' hand, asking surreptitiously, "So, you get paid overtime for that kind of..."

"Hobbes!" Monroe snaps from the hallway, cutting him off.

He winces a little, drops his hand from the Director's (who has a small amused smile on his face), and trails Monroe, muttering, "What? It's a fair question to ask..."/p>

oOo

It's 4:20pm. Noble leads the agents out of the back of the building directly onto a helicopter-landing pad. Most of the area is cordoned off with yellow ticker tape, and there are numerous indicators showing where human bodies had fallen on the black macadam. Crimson stains on the ground in and around the chalked outlines have yet to be washed away.

He removes a section of tape so that Hobbes and Monroe may enter. "Please watch your step," he advises. "We've left everything here and in the lab untouched since the 'incident'. ...Except for the removal of the bodies," he adds with an uneasy look. "All access has been denied, except for the Director and myself."

Monroe asks without looking at him, "And neither you or the Director have touched anything?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Hobbes walks the inside perimeter, running calculations in his mind. "So the kidnappers hijacked the chopper?"

Noble looks embarrassed. "Yes. We were all completely taken by surprise."

Monroe notices a small pile of what looks like debris near the center of the heliport. She carefully goes to it, stepping around the outlines of human bodies. She crouches down and closely inspects the contents of the pile.

"Were you here that night?" Hobbes continues his inquiries from his vantage point.

Noble drops his eyes and somberly regards his shoes. "Yes. I was the previous Director's assistant as well. We were working late reviewing case particulars."

"How'd it all go down?" Hobbes notes the other man's reactions from the corner of his eye.

"One of the projects was being transferred to a better equipped facility," Noble begins.

"Which one was that again?" Hobbes interrupts, hoping that the assistant slips enough to reveal more information. Sorry, Bobby. No such thing.

"The one that we're asking for your help on," Noble replies in a bland tone before continuing. "The helicopter was almost loaded when numerous explosions simultaneously went off throughout the facility. The Director and I ran out to see what was going on, and that's when the gunfire began." He stops suddenly, with a haunted look in his unfocused eyes.

Monroe raises her head to sympathetically regard him before calling to Hobbes in a low voice. "Hobbes, come here and take a look at this."

He tilts his head to one side. "What's up?" He carefully strolls over to where she's crouched and glances over her shoulder at the pile of debris.

"Are those what I think they are?" he murmurs to her.

She nods. She's lightly dusted off something with a metallic glint to it, but her and Hobbes' bodies obscure most of the view.

By now, Noble's noticed their change in demeanor. "What's the matter?" He takes a few hesitant steps towards them.

Hobbes turns completely around to face the other man, and scans the rest of the area with a practiced eye. "There wasn't anything left here that might be considered a security risk? Anything you wouldn't want those without the right clearance to see."

Noble begins to look puzzled. "No. Why?"

"You're sure?"

Noble still looks puzzled, but there's a strange, hard gleam now in his eyes. "Again, no. The Director and I did check, but other than removing the bodies of those killed during the incident, nothing was disturbed. The intruders took all of the files and relevant data. Why? What did you find?"

As the men are conversing, Monroe tugs a pair of gloves and an evidence bag from her shoulder satchel. She hands the evidence bag to Hobbes, who turns and holds it open for her as she carefully inserts the metallic item(s). She then seals the bag and carefully places it back in her satchel.

"It looks like the kidnappers might've dropped a few things. It's okay if we run some tests on them, right?" Hobbes rises, turns and cuts Noble off before he can reach Monroe and see what she's holding. He turns and guides the assistant back to the yellow tape.

"I'll have to check with the Director..." Noble looks uneasy.

"Now, you both did mention we could take anything from the crime scenes that would help our investigation. And this could be the break we need to ID these people," Hobbes interjects smoothly as Monroe stands and follows them to the perimeter. She's tied the satchel tightly shut, and slings it back over her shoulder.

Hobbes looks over his shoulder at her and asks, "Ready to check out the lab?"

She nods and takes Nobles' arm in her hands with a warm smile. "I know it's been hard on you, but could you tell us some more about what happened that night?"

Hobbes follows them back into the building as Noble continues his recollection of events.

He leads them down the remains of a long corridor sloping down gradually into the earth. The farther down they go, the worse the damage gets. There's temporary lighting strung up on the walls, which casts an odd glow on the fire-damaged corridor. Hobbes begins to look nervous.

"Man, this is really starting to creep me _out_," he comments to Monroe, who's walking in front of him.

She turns her head back briefly to look at him. "You can always wait for me in the car," she replies in an innocent tone.

He looks insulted. "No thank you. It's not like I'm scared, like some little kid..."

She snorts softly.

"Hey!" he snaps. "It's just these lights don't help me thinking I'm walking into a morgue, or one of those horror flicks; you know... with the guy... and the chainsaw... all hacking up kids too dumb to run away..."

"Here we are," Noble interrupts smoothly.

They come to a stop at a doorway that looks like an insane rhino charged through it from the inside.

Monroe steps into the doorway and looks inside the room.

"Be careful what you touch," Noble cautions. "We're still having problems with structural instability in this part of the complex."

Meanwhile, Hobbes is closely inspecting the blasted doorway. He runs a cautious finger down the buckled frame, brings it to his nose, and lightly sniffs a few times. "Plastique. Nice..." he mutters.

Noble glances at him, a little surprised. "That's right. We found traces of it at every entranceway they used in entering and exiting the facility. How did you know?"

Hobbes puffs up a little, glad to boast about one of his, many... talents. "I know everything about explosives. I can usually tell what was used just by the smell."

"Don't be too impressed," comments Monroe from inside the room. She's carefully picking her way through the debris. "More times than not he's wrong, even if he won't admit it."

He reddens at the jibe. "Hey... I may not be an expert on everything, Monroe..."

"You got _that_ right," she comments in a low voice, while,

"... But I've never missed an ID on explosives or incendiaries," he finishes, uninterrupted. "And how would you know if I was ever wrong?" he continues. "You haven't known me long enough... " He cautiously enters the room. It's clear that the fire in this section of the building had originated inside.

Other than the indications of where walls had been/are, anything in the room that might have been something was no longer recognizable as such. Monroe is crouching next to the remains of a wall on the right side of the room, and looking at something poking out from the debris. Hobbes carefully picks his way through the rubble, looking all around for signs of imminent collapse. He stops just behind and to her left, and she glances up at him briefly before returning her gaze to the object(s) of her attention.

He gazes over her shoulder and down at the pile. He tenses, and turns slightly to look at Noble over his shoulder. "This's the lab the experiment was in, right?"

Noble frowns in puzzlement, unsure where this line of questioning was leading. "Yeeess."

"Were they using live test subjects?" Monroe asks without looking up.

Noble nods a bit hesitantly. "Yes, they were."

She stands, and she and Hobbes exchange pointed looks. She walks away from the wall, to reveal the twisted remains of a metal hospital gurney/cot with shreds of fabric hanging from where restraints are typically attached.

Hobbes tugs on the bed a little, but the crumpled metal doesn't even budge. "Wow, that was some helluva blast," he mutters absently under his breath. He turns to once again run a practiced eye over the remains of the room.

There's the faint groaning of the building's weight shifting above them.

Monroe carefully picks her way back to the doorway, where Noble still stands with an inquisitive look on his face. She nods to him, and turns to watch Hobbes' regard of the room.

"Bobby, you ready?" she asks. "We need to check in at the motel."

He drops his arms, finished with triangulating possible trajectories in his mind. He wrenches his mental focus to the here-and-now, and turns to look at her. He hesitates for a moment as he gives the room one last cursory look. "Yeah, I got what I need." He turns and carefully walks towards the door.

Another slight, ominous groan comes from the remaining supports to the broken ceiling above.

He steps up his pace, and the three return to the front of the building.

Agent Noble stands at the entranceway as Monroe and Hobbes say their goodbyes and get into their rental car. He raises his hand in an absentminded wave and turns to go back into the building as the two agents drive away.

There's silence for a few moments in the car, then Hobbes speaks up. "Am I right in thinking something hinky's going on here?"

Monroe furrows her brows. "'Hinky'? What kind of word is... 'hinky'?"

He looks slightly abashed. "What? You never heard that word before?"

She shakes her head in amusement. "No. Where on earth did you pick that up?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but she cuts him off. "You know what? Never mind, I don't think I want to know."

Still amazed that she never heard the word 'hinky' before, he mutters, "I can't believe you never heard the word hinky before."

"Hobbes, focus," she orders with a small smile.

He gives his head a slight shake, and then cranes it to glance at her satchel carefully resting on the back seat.

"So, what do you make of _that_?" she asks, nodding her head towards the bag.

"I dunno, but whatever it means, I got a bad feeling about this," he replies somberly.

"You always have a bad feeling about something."

"Yeah, and I'm always right, too."

She shakes her head once. "Not all the time."

"Oh, really? And doesn't something always seem to go wrong during a mission?"

"Yes, it's usually because of something you or Fawkes screws up," she teases.

He snorts derisively before thoughtfully gazing out of the passenger window. "You notice how Barnes wouldn't answer me when I asked him to explain about it being a 'break out' and not a 'break in'?"

She nods as she checks her rear-view mirror.

"And what's the deal with that big folder they had?" he continues.

"It probably had all the stuff in it they didn't want us to know," she replies, changing lanes.

"Like they were daring us to try and read it." He then murmurs scathingly, "_Jerks_."

"I think we scared Agent Noble a little back there on the heliport," she comments, wisely ignoring his spirited outburst.

"Yeah, too bad I can't interrogate _him_." He pops his knuckles gleefully. "I'd crack him like an egg."

Monroe glances disdainfully at him from the corner of her eye. "I wonder if Fawkes has managed to dig up anything," she comments pensively.


	3. Chapter Three

Thursday, roughly 2:45pm

Darien sits in his car a little ways down the street, watching MacKenna and de Fehrn enter her new apartment through his binoculars.

"What are they doing at Alianora's old place?" he wonders. For a few minutes, he sits and vainly attempts to observe their movements from inside his car. But then he decides to get out and sneak to a closer (and hopefully better) vantage point by one of the windows.

Luckily, she seems to prefer fresh air as opposed to recycled, and is opening every single window and door in the apartment.

"... hope you don't mind, but I can't stand to be in air-conditioning right now," she's speaking over her shoulder as she fumbles open the window next to the one Darien's crouching by.

He instinctively flattens himself against the building, holding his breath.

He hears de Fehrn speaking, as if he were in another room. The exact words are indistinguishable.

"I really appreciate your help, Doctor."

"Please, call me Arnaud," comes the gracious (and insincere) reply. "We might as well be on a first name basis since we're to be working together," he finishes as she enters the living room.

Darien settles by another window near the outside door in the living room. The lace curtains are still drawn, but he's able to make out the two inside fairly well.

"Then call me Amy," she replies. "I'm going to check the fridge. Would you like anything?"

A cigarette floats up from a pack, and is lit with a lighter. The tip brightens momentarily, and then the cigarette drops down as a small cloud of smoke puffs out from his invisible mouth. "Thank you, no," he replies dryly. The couch acquires a human-shaped indentation as he sits down.

"Be right back." She walks towards the kitchen and Darien hears her mutter, "Damn could I use a stiff drink."

de Fehrn slowly draws in another lungful. "Actually, my dear, I'd love to get this farce over with," he grumbles as he impatiently breathes out smoke.

"You say something?" MacKenna asks, re-entering the room with a beer bottle in her left hand.

Before he can answer she comments, "It's so weird... the fridge and cabinets are all full. Is this how Mr. Stark treats all his people?"

She flops down on a chair next to the couch and rests her feet on the coffee table. She grips the bottle between her knees and pops the lid off of the bottle with her left palm. She takes a long pull from it, swallows, and then gazes thoughtfully at the liquid contents.

"I haven't had a drink in eight years," she comments absently. "It's so hard to accept all of this. _Hunh_, I haven't thanked you for getting me out..." she trails off, glancing up at the spot where de Fehrn's sitting.

The cigarette is dashed in an ashtray on the coffee table. "No need to thank me, my dear. I just hope you'll be able to assist me with my particular... dilemma."

She sets her beer down on the coffee table and perches on the edge of her chair. "Yeah, well, I'll do my best." She inclines her head to the side. She ponders for a few moments, then, "Mr. Stark said something about you needing to get more of the records from the original experiment."

"Yes. Unfortunately, it's in a secure area of the building, and..." he stops when Darien's cell phone begins to ring.

"Aw, crap!" Darien fervently mutters sotto voce. He instinctively Quicksilvers as he quickly looks down and frantically reaches inside his coat to turn off the offending device.

At a sound from inside the apartment, his head jerks upwards just in time to see de Fehrn's Quicksilver-outlined foot crash through the screen window into his face. The resulting thud is heard as the mercenary tritely comments, "Hello, Fawkes."

..O..

Darien blearily opens his eyes to find himself lying on his back with his wrists, knees and ankles heavily duct-taped together. His right cheekbone feels like it's on fire, and the rest of his head throbs in commiseration. He carefully raises his head to get a look at his surroundings.

"Well, it's about time you woke up from your little nap," a disembodied voice comments from the armchair adjacent to the couch.

"Nice to see you too, Ar_naud_," Darien replies caustically as he gingerly drops his head down on the couch. "So, what now? Torture? Gunshot to the head?"

de Fehrn chuckles. "I _wish_. But that would scare away my little friend here, and I couldn't have that now, could I?"

MacKenna limps into the living room from the kitchen. She stops when she notices that Darien's awake, and glances uncertainly at de Fehrn's chair. "I called him," she states quietly. "He's sending someone over for him in a few minutes." She nods towards Darien. "What should we do 'til they get here?"

de Fehrn sighs heavily. "Nothing much, since you're so squeamish about killing him."

She trudges to the armchair at Darien's head, and lightly perches on the edge furthest away from him. It's as if she's anxious that he'll try to jump her. She adjusts the bandage on her arm with a small wince.

She also seems a little irritated at de Fehrn's jibe. "I obviously don't mind killing... _certain_, people. But we've done enough of _that_ over the past few days. I thought you understood that," she returns intensely.

"Sorry, I was just joking with you," he attempts to soothe her.

It doesn't work.

"I'm not laughing," she retorts. She sighs and raises her hands to her forehead and lightly massages her temples. "As soon as he's gone," she nods towards Darien, "I'm gonna hit the sack. God, I'm so _freakin'_ tired," she finishes under her breath.

"Uh, don't mean to intrude, but, what exactly _is_ gonna happen to me here?" Darien asks, apprehensive at not knowing what they were going to do to him.

She regards him thoughtfully for a moment as she continues to rub her head before questioning de Fehrn, "Is it okay to tell him?"

After a glass of wine is picked up, drunk, and lowered to the coffee table, his voice responds from the depths of his chair. "I don't see why not; he'll find out soon enough anyway."

She dips her head in acknowledgement before swiveling to regard Darien. "Mr. Stark is sending someone over to pick you up."

"And take me to Chrysalis?"

She nods.

"And then what?"

She shrugs nonchalantly. "Whatever they do with people like you. At the moment, I couldn't care less. I just gotta get some sleep."

"What'd they promise you to work for 'em?"

"They didn't hire me, they rescued me," she replies, her brows furrowing in confusion.

"From what?"

Her expression hardens as painful memories surge. Her hands slowly ball up into tight fists before she consciously relaxes them. "_Hell_," is the crisp response.

Something clicks in his mind. "You're not the one Arnaud took from that lab in Virginia, are you?" he asks, the realization in his voice.

"My, aren't we astute today," de Fehrn muses cynically. "Give the boy a star."

Darien ignores him, craning his head to look MacKenna in the eyes.

She's jerked back into the chair, and now quickly rises and retreats from the couch. The color drains from her face as she begins to panic. "How did...? Oh shit, they _did_ send you! I can't stay here... I-I've gotta _go_..." her head swings from side to side, like a hunted rabbit searching for a bolthole. She lurches towards the door.

The impression of de Fehrn on the other armchair lifts, and he lopes towards the woman.

Darien Quicksilvers his eyes in time to see de Fehrn grab her left arm and get right into her face.

Again he notices a sizable spark, larger than the first, flash between the two when de Fehrn seizes her arm. They seem too preoccupied to notice.

"Calm _down_, girl! They have no idea where you are now; and we won't let them take you again... so would you, please... just... _calm_ ..._down_!" de Fehrn now has hold of both of her upper arms, and shakes her with each pause. Her breath catches in her throat at the pain he's inflicting on the gunshot wound. She wrenches her arms out of his grasp with a small cry of pain, and seizes his face between both hands. A sizable spark flashes between both of her hands and his temples.

"Don't you... _ever_... touch me... again!" she growls savagely.

His body becomes rigid as she speaks, and he doesn't move until her knees suddenly give out as she drops to the floor. Slowly, she sits up and takes three very slow and deep breaths while tilting her head down to her knees with her eyes closed. She trembles violently for a few moments as if she's having a seizure.

Almost unseen/unnoticed are droplets of blood coursing from her nose into a tiny puddle between her knees.

As she sinks to the floor, de Fehrn emerges from the hypnotic state he was plunged into. He gazes down at her for a moment. Abruptly, he turns, stalks to the couch, and punches Darien in the stomach. _Hard_.

Once he stops coughing and is able to draw a breath, Darien cracks open his now un-Quicksilvered eyes. "What the hell was _that_ for?"

de Fehrn eases back into his chair. "Well, it certainly wouldn't've been very sporting to do that to an ally, would it?" He waves a hand at MacKenna, who hasn't moved. She appears to have missed what had just happened.

A moment passes where everything is quiet, so Darien takes the time to see if he can still breathe.

Luckily, he can, but his ribs are on fire, and they stab him with pain every time he tries to take anything other than a shallow breath.

de Fehrn ignites another cigarette and deeply inhales.

MacKenna opens her eyes, the panic in them replaced by exhaustion, and sneezes. Her face scrunches up in a moue of distaste when she notices the lit cigarette. "Do you have to smoke those filthy things in here?" she asks, blowing a plume of smoke away from the front of her face. "They smell like pig crap."

She barely stifles another sneeze as she slowly rises and leans heavily on the coffee table. She falls into the armchair, too tired to be paranoid about Darien anymore.

de Fehrn agitatedly dashes out his cigarette and stands. The pack of cigarettes and a lighter lift into the air, and hover towards the door. "Fine, I'll go outside. I could use some fresh air anyway," he snaps. He mutters under his breath as he leaves the room, "Little brat was likely raised by pigs."

The screen door is jerked open and slammed shut, startling her. She sighs deeply as she rests her head against the back of the chair, her eyes once again closed.

Darien studies her, now noticing how ragged she seems. There is gauze wrapped around her wrists and ankles, and deep, dark circles under her eyes. The bruise on her left cheekbone extends all the way from her temple to the side of her nose. There are two butterfly closures holding closed a small ragged gash in the center. It looks like she was kicked in the face, instead of being punched or slapped. She's no longer wearing the hat and sunglasses, and Darien sees that the bruise extends over her swelling eye to end a smidgen above her left eyebrow. Small curly wisps of hair that have escaped the ponytail float softly against her face. At the moment, she looks much older than she is.

Taking advantage of de Fehrn's absence, he tries to get some information from her. "How did you get those?" he asks with soft empathy in his voice, indicating her visible bruises with a jerk of his chin.

She opens her eyes and regards him thoughtfully. "They weren't too thrilled with me 'checking out', so they made sure I had some _love_ly parting gifts to remember 'em by," she snorts softly. "...As if _you_ cared," she finishes with weary sarcasm. She nods her head towards the door, where de Fehrn is standing outside. "Look, I know all about you and your 'Agency'. He told me they sent you to bring me back."

"To the... what is it? The, 'Shop'?"

She blinks. He notices how just even the mention of the place makes her nervous. "_Hmm_," she nods. "You might as well know: I'll _never_ go back there, dead _or_ alive," she finishes with quiet determination.

"What's the deal with this place, anyway? I never heard of it before."

She tilts her head to the side. "You trying to tell me you weren't sent to 'retrieve' me?"

"Not you, exactly," he frowns, thinking. "We're supposed to find the information he," he nods towards the door, indicating de Fehrn, "stole from a... lab..." he trails off thoughtfully, and then looks sharply at her. He's made another connection. "Hold on a sec. So, if you're the research assistant, then how come you're so chummy with Arnaud and Stark?"

Her eyes widen in amazement. Slowly, a smile creeps across her face, and she snorts softly. "Is _that_ what they made you think?" she sniggers. There's a note of mania in her voice. "_I_ was the research assistant? Oh, that's rich!" She barely manages to stifle her laughter before continuing. "I used to be an assistant _years_ ago! Ever since, I've _been_ the research, and Arnaud and Mr. Stark broke me out!"

He watches her expression change from almost manic amusement to tormented recall. She absently rubs the back of her neck in a manner disturbingly similar to his.

Her situation appears similar to what he's always feared would happen to him: locked away in a secret lab and being poked and prodded as a specimen instead of being treated like a human being.

"Okay, so..." he interjects, thinking rapidly. "Arnaud busted you out, but did he say why? And what does Chrysalis have to do with this?"

The brief outburst of humor gone, she again regards Darien quizzically. "You weren't even told the whole story, were you?" She zones out, plunging deep into thought. "Well, _duh_, of course they wouldn't tell him... I'm supposed to be dead anyway, remember?" she murmurs. Her face contorts in an effort not to cry.

Darien feels a twinge at the back of his head; he can tell that he'll need to get his shot... soon. And man is he feeling really, _really_, hot.

_Wait a minute... I shouldn't need a shot yet. It's way too soon..._

"Look, I'm not here to take you back," he speaks softly, understanding that she probably wasn't kidding when she said she came from Hell. "I'm supposed to find Arnaud, and then wait for my partner to get back."

Her eyes refocus on his face. Instead of tears, they expose a haunted and aged look. "All I know is that Arnaud and Mr. Stark are working together, and that Stark's funding Arnaud's research..."

"'Research'? For what?"

"A cure to his," she pauses, wondering how exactly to phrase it, "visibility problem?"

"He's gotta want something in return, though," he ponders.

She tilts her head a little to the side. "Well, yeah. You."

His face falls in disgusted realization. "_Crap_," he mutters as his head plunges back onto the cushion.

Thursday, roughly 5:45pm

Claire is on the phone, waiting for someone to answer. The Official and Eberts are also in the room, waiting. She hangs up when Darien's voice mail message starts. She looks very anxious.

The Official observes her hang up the phone, and asks, "So?"

She looks up at the two men, frowning. She shakes her head. "He was supposed to have checked in over six hours ago. His phone is on, but he's just not picking up."

Unsettled at seeing her so worried, Eberts carefully studies the patterns on the ceiling so he doesn't have to see her fretting. "If we need to find him quickly, I could try to triangulate his location... but only if his phone stays active..." he suggests helpfully.

"Can it, Eberts," The Official rumbles. He paces over towards Claire's computer, and taps the screen lightly. "What's the latest on those tests?"

She turns, sits down in her chair, and types a few commands. A chart comes up on the computer monitor, showing a graph with a line rising in increments.

"Unfortunately, it looks like I was right. His hormonal levels are steadily increasing, and I'm worried about how it's affecting his system."

She types a little more, and a picture replaces the graph. "I took some live cells from the gland, and treated them with the counteragent. It seems that the increased levels of estrogen he's producing is absorbing, and therefore blocking the effects of, the counteragent."

The Official's face grows grim. "So, if he uses the gland..."

"It will only make things worse," she replies firmly.

Eberts gazes over the doctor's left shoulder at the computer monitor. "When was his last shot?"

She glances up at him. "Three days ago."

"So, depending on how much he uses the gland, he could... go, at any time," The Official murmurs thoughtfully.

She nods. "I'm afraid so."

Eberts' expression shifts from concern to reflection. "Aren't there ways of blocking the production of specific hormones?"

Claire taps a couple of keys, and the computer screen clears. She swings her chair around to face the two men. "Yes, but in this case it's mainly used for women, and I don't know how the gland, or Darien, would be affected."

The Official straightens and turns to leave. "Work on it. Eberts," He waves for His assistant to follow Him. "Let's see if you can find Fawkes."

"I'll try to get a hold of Bobby and Alex," she informs His retreating back.

A beaming Eberts follows Him out the lab door. _For once, He's actually taking one of my ideas seriously!_

Claire picks up the phone and starts dialing.

Thursday, 4:30pm

Darien is still tied up on the couch, while MacKenna is relaxing in her armchair with her eyes closed.

The screen door opens and quickly slams shut. She jerks, startled out of a light doze. Darien's head swings around to see who's entering, but the room is empty.

"Sorry," de Fehrn apologizes insincerely. "Just thought you'd like to know they're here for Fawkes." His voice steadily approaches the couch and chairs as he speaks.

She nods, rubbing at her eyes with the palm of her left hand.

Suddenly, Darien's cheeks look like they're being squeezed between de Fehrn's middle finger and thumb.

"Are we weady for a wittle dwive, Dawien?" he mocks.

He yanks his head from the mercenaries' grasp and replies scathingly, "Why don't you go to hell."

"Too late, hombre'... already there," is the saccharin reply. He looks down at his hand, and recalls that he can't see it. "_Eeeeuch!_" he exclaims in disgust. "Are you coming down with something? You're sopping wet!"

"If I am, I hope it's contagious," Darien shoots back, realistically faking the beginning of a sneeze. "_Aaahhh_... _aaaaaaaahhhhh_..."

A scuffle is heard as de Fehrn tries to retreat out of the blast zone.

"_Chooooo!_" Darien blows as much air and spit as he can in the other man's direction, and then smiles innocently.

"Excuse me," he apologizes in a small voice. _"sniff"_

MacKenna chuckles softly, knowing he faked the sneeze. "Boys, boys, can't you be civil for a few more minutes?"

de Fehrn makes some more small nauseated noises as a Kleenex is lifted from a box on the end table at the far end of the couch. It sweeps and jerks through the air as he wipes off his shirt and pants.

Darien, remembering that he only has moments left until Stark and his goons enter, scrutinizes the woman with pleading eyes. "You do realize they're going to kill me."

Finished rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she straightens and looks down at him. "Not my problem," she replies evenly.

There's a shadow at the door, then the screen door opens to reveal the big, brutish white guy (Alex Wexo's character), a black dude, and Stark standing behind them. They all have slightly smug looks on their faces, like sharks would right before they feast on a buffet of surfers.

Darien notices the men entering the apartment, and begins to look alarmed. He smoothes his expression as best as he can, but his eyes give his true feelings away: he's terrified.

"Hey, guys! Welcome to the party!" he greets them with false cheer. "Sorry I didn't let you in myself, but I'm a little tied up at the moment."

Brute smiles at the attempt at levity. It isn't a nice smile... nor is it pretty.

The muscle-men step aside to let Stark through. He takes a few steps into the apartment, gives it a once-over with his eyes, and turns to look at MacKenna.

"Ah, Miss MacKenna," he smiles winningly at her.

She moves as if to stand, and he raises a hand while shaking his head. "No, please, stay seated. You should be resting right now," he chastises mildly, "And anyway, we won't be very long here." He waves a hand nonchalantly at Darien, who is trying to loosen the duct tape binding his hands without the others noticing. It doesn't work... In either case.

The exhausted woman relaxes gratefully back into her chair as she carefully tucks her legs under her.

Stark ambles towards the couch to stand on the other side of the coffee table. He visually assesses Darien's bonds, and satisfied that they'll hold, he swivels and nods for Brute and Dude to come get the incapacitated agent.

They approach the couch.

He then compliments de Fehrn and MacKenna on their choice of restraints. "Duct tape. Interesting, and effective. Nice. Good work."

de Fehrn's voice wafts over from behind the other chair that he was sitting in earlier. "It was actually Amy's idea... it's proven to be very effective over a wide range of... temperatures."

Stark turns his head and nods kudos to her, and she shrugs faintly. She winces in pain, since she temporarily forgot the need to keep her right arm as still as possible. She raises her left hand to check the bandage and then gingerly rearrange her shirt.

Brute and Dude roughly pick up Darien from the couch - Brute at his head and Dude carrying his legs.

He again attempts to appeal to her for help. "Did Arnaud tell you that he's a mercenary, and a murderer?"

Her brows furrow slightly as she cocks her head to the left while attempting to stifle a cavernous yawn. It's clear that she's thinking: '_What's this guys' angle, anyway?_'

"And that he killed my brother?" he continues darkly.

"This is a waste of time," de Fehrn returns with contempt.

Stark nods his agreement, and Brute and Dude haul Darien towards the door. "Hey, c'mon guys, careful with the hair," he complains at the rough manhandling.

As they go outside, he hears MacKenna ask Stark a question. "So, what are you going to do with him?"

"Never mind that," he replies firmly, dismissing what he considers unimportant for her to think of and/or know about. "Why don't you get some sleep now? Give me a call tomorrow when you're ready. I'll have one of my men pick you up, and we can go over a few more things then."

"A-Alright," she replies quietly.

"Would you care to join me Doctor?" He courteously waves for de Fehrn to precede him out the door.

"I wouldn't miss _this_ for anything," the invisible mercenary replies with a cheerfully malicious tone in his voice.

The men walk out the door to the waiting limousine, where Brute and Dude have secured Darien in the seat directly behind the driver's window. Stark waits politely for de Fehrn to enter the back of the limo while Dude shuts his front passenger door. Brute spies Darien's phone still lying on the ground as Stark seats himself next to his associate. He finishes closing his bosses' door, walks over to the phone, scoops it up and drops it into his coat pocket. He then gets in the driver's door and starts the limo.

He hasn't noticed that the phone is still turned on.

MacKenna stands at the doorway, looking thoughtfully after the limo pulling out on to the street. She turns, shuts and locks the door behind her as she goes in to bed for the night.


	4. Chapter Four

Late Thursday night, roughly 12:45am

Hobbes and Monroe wearily enter The Official's office. Eberts is rapidly typing on his laptop, which is set up on the circular table on the other side of the room from the desk. The Official is standing behind him, scrutinizing what he's bringing up on the screen.

His eyes flick up as first Hobbes and then Monroe enters.

"So? How was the trip?" He asks smoothly.

Hobbes affects a fatigued pose, with the back of his hand on his forehead. "We have traveled far, and suffered much..."

Monroe pinches his shoulder with a wee grin on her face.

He flinches with an utterance of "_ouch!_", while The Official rolls His eyes in irritation at the two agents' behavior.

"I don't have time for your shenanigans," He almost barks.

They drop all pretense of joking around and get serious.

"Did you find anything useful for us?" He finishes, with a minor emphasis on 'use' as He peremptorily gestures at them.

Hobbes nods, replying, "Yeah, you could say that..." as Monroe tugs her shoulder satchel around to dig out the contents.

"Explain."

Monroe carefully pulls out an evidence bag (the one that she filled at the helioport), and carefully deposits it on the table beside Eberts.

The assistant's gaze has, until this moment, been focused on his computer screen. As Monroe places the evidence bag beside him, he smiles and exclaims, "Got it!"

Then he glances at the evidence bag.

It contains a set of four interconnected shackles with what appears to be blood on parts of them. They look like they've been severed in the middle by a bolt cutter.

"What, in the world, is _that_?" he asks with a note of mild repulsion in his voice.

"That, my friend Eberts, is a set of shackles that're used on convicts," replies Hobbes matter-of-factly. He seems to derive some humor from the man's nauseated response to the sight of blood.

Monroe comes around the table to look at the computer screen, adding, "We spoke with the interim Director and one of the agents there. They couldn't tell us very much..."

"You mean they _wouldn't_ tell us," interrupts Hobbes sarcastically.

She shoots him a quelling glare while continuing. "… And they were very... insistent about us not divulging details of the case... with anyone."

The Official blinks. "'Anyone'?"

She stops behind Eberts' right shoulder, and looks over him at the computer screen.

"It means, sir, that they don't want us talking to even you about this," Hobbes replies, looking slightly indignant at the thought. "They want this kept very much on the Q-T, you see."

The Official grimaces. "Hogwash. As if I couldn't be trusted."

Eberts glances up at Him. "I would think that you, sir, would understand their position on this, more than anyone else."

"Shut up, Eberts," He snaps, and the assistant's head drops down to his computer.

"About those shackles..." He brings the other's attention back to the bag on the table. "What are they from?"

Monroe bestows upon Hobbes a particularly pointed glare, as if to say '_Don't even think about telling him... we're under orders,'_ but he blatantly ignores her.

"From what was left in that lab; of which there was very little, I might add; looks to me like they had someone in there."

"Like, a prisoner?" Eberts asks lowly.

He glances down at the assistant. "Yeah, sort of; and it didn't look like it was under friendly circumstances either, if you know what I mean."

"Explain," The Official grunts.

Monroe gives up glaring at Hobbes, figuring she might as well contribute to the discussion now that he's let the cat out of the proverbial bag.

"There was the remains of an old hospital bed, with remnants of restraints on it. With all the smashed equipment being hauled from the building, Hobbes and I figure they're performing human testing for at least one project."

"I think it's got something to do with Arnaud's little problem with his gland," Hobbes adds.

"Maybe, but I wouldn't rule out other possibilities," she returns levelly.

He opens his mouth to say something, hesitates, and then closes it. He's forgotten what he was going to say. In a vain effort to cover his verbal trip-up, he looks around for his partner.

"Eberts, what are you doing?" Monroe asks, tapping the monitor's casing to get his attention.

At the same time, Hobbes asks, "Where's Fawkes?"

Eberts swings his head back to the computer at Monroe's question and taps at a point on the screen. "I've been attempting to triangulate Agent Fawkes' location through the signal to his phone. It took a little more time than I thought..."

"Why? What's up with Fawkesy?" Hobbes interrupts, frowning.

No one answers. Eberts and The Official unobtrusively find something else to look at other than Hobbes.

"What is it, _Eberts_?" Hobbes demands, this time with an edge to his voice.

The Official's face is grim. "He hasn't checked in since he left this morning."

"What's he been doing?" he asks earnestly.

"What else? Looking for de Fehrn," He replies matter-of-factly.

Monroe shrugs, still gazing at the computer screen. "So what? He probably took a long lunch. I'm sure we'll hear from him by tomorrow morning."

The Official shakes his head. "It might be too late then. We need to find him, _now_."

Eberts helpfully expands. "The Keeper was running some tests on Darien's blood, and came up with abnormally high hormonal levels. She asked him to check in with her every couple of hours, but he has yet to call once."

Hobbes looks concerned. "He must've run into some trouble. I know my partner; he wouldn't forget to call Claire if she asked him to."

"So what kind of problem would these 'abnormal' hormone levels create?" Monroe asks, straightening up.

The Official replies dourly, "What we're talking about is Fawkes going Quicksilver mad much earlier than expected."

Hobbes looks slightly alarmed. "We'd better hurry then." He looks at Eberts' computer. "You said you got a lock on his twenty?"

The assistant nods. He types a few commands, and then hits enter. A printer spits out a piece of paper. He tears it off and hands it to Monroe (since she's closest). "Here's the address."

"Then let's get a move on, Monroe," Hobbes urges, already halfway out the door.

"Wait!" The Official stops them before they've gone. "Check in with The Keeper first. She said she might have something to help you out.";

"Thanks," Monroe replies, since Hobbes is already down the hall at the elevator doors. She closes The Official's office door behind her and follows.

The laboratory door slides open. Claire is at her workstation, filling a hypodermic with some sort of liquid. She looks up as first Hobbes and then Monroe enters. She looks harried.

"Good, you're back," she utters wearily. "We don't have much time left."

She palms the hypo she just filled, and then adds a second from the counter to her right. She holds them up for the others to see. The contents of the hypos are of two different colors.

"I've color-coded them so you can tell which one to use," she starts. "This one," she indicates the green colored liquid, "is a sedative, in case Darien goes Quicksilver mad before you get to him. The other," she then indicates the clear colored liquid, "is a hormone blocker so the counteragent can work effectively."

Monroe takes the green hypo while Hobbes carefully pockets the clear one.

Claire strides to the refrigerator, and opens it to grab another hypo with a tiny amount of the familiar blue counteragent inside. "The rest of the batch isn't ready yet, but hopefully this will suffice long enough for you to bring Darien in. I'll be ready by the time you all return."

Hobbes takes the counteragent and puts it in a separate pocket. "We'll bring him home safe and sound," he confidently assures her.

"What exactly is wrong with him anyway?" Monroe requests.

Claire turns to her and quickly responds, "Since we're pressed for time, I'll give you the short and quick version."

Monroe nods, indicating that the doctor should continue.

"The gland is causing the production of abnormally high levels of estrogen, which are impeding the effects of the counteragent. Until we can get those levels under control, it'll be as if Darien never got his shot three days ago."

Monroe's eyes widen slightly as the impact of the doctor's words sink in.

Hobbes quickly treads to the door, catching the other agent's arm as he passes.

She's pivoted around as he declares, "Let's get moving, Monroe. Time's a wastin'."

She pulls her arm free with an irritated grimace. "All _right_, Hobbes. You don't have to herd me," she mutters as the door slides shut behind her.

O

They pull up behind Darien's car at roughly 2:00am. Hobbes parks the van, and he and Monroe get out to check the car. Before he closes his door, he pulls out from behind his seat the headgear he uses to see his partner when he's Quicksilvered. He settles it comfortably on top of his head as he joins Monroe at the car.

He shines a small flashlight over the interior of the car as she feels the hood.

He straightens up with a shake of his head, indicating there's no sign of Darien inside, and she comments lowly, "Hood's cold."

He replies just as quietly as he jerks his head in the direction of the apartment, "You wouldn't know this place, but one of Chrysalis' agents used to live here."

"Which one?" she asks.

"The Lady of The Lake,"; he replies thoughtfully.

She looks quizzically at him, not recognizing the reference.

He expands. "Alianora."

"Ah," she nods. "We should see if he's inside."

They quietly head down the block towards the apartment, splitting up with Monroe circling the front of the house, and Hobbes taking the rear.

The apartment is dark, except for a soft light left on in the living room.

Coincidentally, Hobbes is peeking through the same window that Darien had stood at just a few hours before.

He peers inside the living room, and spies the sleeping form of MacKenna curled up in a loose fetal position on the couch. She is lying partially on her left side with her right arm cradled against her chest. Her left arm is bent at the elbow, with the back of her hand resting lightly on the cushion next to her left cheek. There's a light blanket draped across her legs, and her clean hair is spread out on the couch pillow, as well as partially obscuring part of her face. Her worn features look almost peaceful, as if this was the first real bit of rest she's gotten in a very long time.

After scanning the rest of the room visible to him, Hobbes notices the broken screen. On a hunch, he pulls out and turns on his penlight to scan the ground surrounding him. A yard or so away, he comes across a scuffled and torn up patch of grass and dirt. He bends and lightly examines the area.

At a barely noticeable scuff on the ground behind him, he whirls around with his gun drawn.

It was Monroe, quickly putting up her own gun as she recognized him.

He holsters his own gun as she nods towards the back door of the apartment. He nods in agreement, and they open the screen to check the door.

It's locked. He raises a hand in frustration, and she shakes her head. She pulls out a lock-pick set from her jacket, and starts to silently work at the lock.

Hobbes dips his head, again impressed with her versatility.

Monroe finishes picking the lock, and she gestures for him to cover her as she opens the door. He pulls out his gun as he enters the apartment behind her.

MacKenna hasn't moved. The two agents scan the room, and seeing that it was empty except for the three of them, they again split up.

Monroe stays in the living room to keep an eye on the sleeping woman and the door, and Hobbes silently makes his way through the rest of the apartment. As he leaves the living room, he pulls the eyepiece of his headgear down and activates the thermal vision goggles.

A few moments go by, and he re-enters the living room. He deactivates the goggles, lifts the eyepiece from his face, and shakes his head. No Darien. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Monroe indicates the sleeping woman, and he nods. He comes to the foot of the couch, and she crouches down a few inches from MacKenna's head.

She reaches out a hand to wake her, but suddenly MacKenna's hands shoot out to seize her face. "You can't move," she commands, her green eyes intensely focusing on the female agent's.

Monroe twitches, paralyzed. Her eyes are wide, not understanding why she can't make her limbs move.

"Freeze!" Hobbes shouts, aiming his gun between MacKenna's eyes. "Don't make another move, girlie, or I'll...!"

"What?" she replies harshly. "Shoot me? Go ahead." She slowly turns her eyes towards him with a feral smile. He sees the panicked determination in them, and fights the urge to ease back a step. She looks like a woman with nothing to lose, and he knew that made her especially dangerous right now.

The air was fairly bristling with tension, and the seconds ticked away like hours.

Thinking furiously, he finally comes to a decision.

He slowly aims the barrel of his gun at the floor.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously at first, but when she recognizes that he's backing down, she (also slowly) pulls her hands away from the other woman's face.

MacKenna sits up in a lotus-like position, and rests her hands, palms up, on her knees. So now Hobbes is able to see them, but they're also not far from the other woman's head.

"Now what?" she asks evenly.

"What'd you do to Monroe?" he demands.

"Gave her an order she couldn't refuse."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means you'd better tell me what the hell you're doing here, before we do something you'll both regret."

She winces in sudden pain and sways momentarily before straightening herself. Her whole body shudders convulsively. She touches her nostrils with trembling fingers and pulls them away, suddenly covered in blood.

Hobbes starts in surprise.

"I've been doing this _way_ too much the past few days," she thinks out loud. "If Arnaud wasn't such a dick, I'd've been in better shape for this." She lightly pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'd appreciate it if you threw me that box beside you," she finishes dryly to Hobbes.

He glances over to his left, and spies a Kleenex box on the end table. He reaches over and lightly tosses it towards her.

She snags it out of the air and pulls out a wad of tissues. She presses it up to her nose, but unfortunately some blood had already flowed down to her chin and dripped onto her black sleeveless tank top.

"Well, then, it seems we're at an impasse," she comments mildly.

"Guess so," he replies, unsure of how exactly he should proceed.

A moment of silence passes before he eases down into the chair behind him with his gun resting on his knee. "I'd say this calls for a little exchange of information. Agreed?"

MacKenna nods slightly. "Okay."

"Ladies first."

She snorts in amusement at the politeness. She touches her nose again, wondering if the bleeding's stopped. Satisfied that it momentarily has, she lowers the soiled tissues to her lap. "Name's Amanda MacKenna."

"Bobby Hobbes. And Agent Alex Monroe." He indicates Monroe with a nod of his head.

Her eyes narrow in suspicion at the mention of 'Agent'. "Who sent you?" she asks sharply.

"We work at The Agency."

She frowns and cocks her head slightly to the side. "Wasn't expecting that. What're you doing here?"

"Looking for my partner. Name's Fawkes," he replies, wondering what answer she had expected.

Her eyes widen in surprised recognition. "That's _it_?"

He straightens in his chair. "So he _was_ here. How long ago?"

She shakes her head. "Huh-uh. My turn. That's the, _only_, reason you're here?"

Now it's his turn to frown. "Pretty much... yeah."

"And you weren't sent to take me back."

"Back? Back where?" he asks in momentary bewilderment, until something nibbles at the back of his mind. "Where are you from?"

She blinks as she regards him. Her eyes unfocus for a moment before she gives herself a small shake. "Never mind. Look, I don't have much patience for games. If I let your friend here go, will you put that freakin' gun away and tell me what the hell is going on?"

He regards her thoughtfully for a moment, and then curtly nods. "As long as you're straight with me, and don't be trying any funny stuff."

"Deal." She raises her hands to show him that she's going to have to touch Monroe in order to free her.

His eyes narrow and his hand tenses, but he releases/leaves his gun on his knee and nods for her to continue.

She shifts her weight slightly, and gently cups Monroe's face between her hands. Her eyes once again bore intensely into the other woman's, and she asserts quietly, "You may move now."

Abruptly, Monroe's muscles relax, and she plops down on the floor.

MacKenna shoots Hobbes a challenge with her eyes. He nods and holsters his gun as he rises and strides over to help Monroe up.

Her legs asleep from being immobile so long, she leans heavily on his arm for support as he guides her towards the chair he'd just vacated. She glares at MacKenna. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"Ever read Stephen King?" is the weary reply. She rubs the tight muscles on the back of her neck with her left hand as she leans her head back. "It's similar to what the little girl's dad could do in Firestarter."

"That doesn't explain very much," Monroe snaps.

"I know," MacKenna replies quietly, her eyes shut.

"Alright," Hobbes breaks in, "When was Fawkes here?"

She cracks open one eye to look at the two agents. "I made his acquaintance around three thirty this afternoon."

"And where is he now?"

She shuts her eye. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" demands Monroe, lightly shaking the feeling back into her legs.

"Exactly that," MacKenna replies evenly. "They took him about an hour later, and didn't feel I needed to know much more."

"They," Hobbes probes.

She sighs heavily before sitting up straight as she opens her eyes to look at the two agents. "Look, this guy Stark and his two bodyguards took your friend somewhere around four thirty or so. They didn't tell me where; and frankly, I didn't want to know. Okay?"

Monroe stands up, having finally gotten most of the feeling back in her legs. She begins to pace in a tight circle. "No, it's not 'okay'," she snaps. "Do you realize that they're going to kill him, if they haven't already?"

Hobbes, having plunged deep into thought when MacKenna mentions Stark's name, suddenly snaps his fingers. Both women start in surprise. He looks up at first MacKenna, then Monroe. "Makes sense. Chrysalis owns this apartment; Mandy here's working for 'em..."

"Amy," MacKenna interrupts coldly.

"What?" Hobbes asks, distracted by the sudden interruption.

"Not Mandy. Don't _ever_... call me... Mandy. Amy, or Amanda." she asserts vehemently. "But never 'Mandy'," she adds with a shiver.

Hobbes assesses her physical state with a piercing eye. "So what happened to you?"

Her expression becomes guarded. "What else? I tangled with some nasty people."

"This just isn't as important as finding Fawkes is right now," Monroe impatiently interrupts. "So, if you were Stark," she addresses Hobbes, "where would you take him?"

"HQ," is the thoughtful reply.

"Or, they'd shoot him and dump the body in an alley somewhere," MacKenna adds with a tiny note of sarcasm.

"Will you shut up," Monroe snaps menacingly. She places her hand on the butt of her gun, indicating that she's perfectly ready to shoot the other woman right here and now.

MacKenna tenses on the couch, her eyes narrowing. "I've been threatened by people a helluva lot nastier than you," she growls, her eyes glittering. "And you don't even come _close_ to scaring me."

"Cut it out," Hobbes steps in between the women's glowering. In doing so, he momentarily turns his back on MacKenna. "Look, maybe we can work something out with this," he confides in a low voice to Monroe.

"What do you mean?"

"Like us calling Stark and suggesting an exchange of 'prisoners'. Hm?"

Monroe nods, her face brightening. "Not bad, Bobby," she compliments.

Hobbes dips his head slightly in acknowledgement, then turns around to face MacKenna.

Only she's no longer on the couch.

He freezes as the point of a very sharp and wicked knife pricks his Adams' apple. She carefully spins him around to shield herself from Monroe, who whips out her gun and aims it between MacKenna's eyes. The other woman carefully removes Hobbes' primary gun from its holster, and then lightly pats down the parts of him she can easily reach. She removes another gun, and tosses it across the room.

"You'd better drop that gun," she orders Monroe as she slowly backs him away... towards the door.

"And you'd better stand still; unless you'd like another nosebleed," Monroe replies evenly, the barrel still unwaveringly aimed between the other woman's eyes.

They narrow into blazing slits. "You're not taking me back there, so go ahead... shoot me. _Please_."

"'There'?" Hobbes grunts. "Where's... there?"

The knife presses deeper into his throat until a small bead of blood forms. His gun is firmly planted in his lower back.

"The Shop," MacKenna hisses into his ear. "I'd rather _die_ than return to that hole!"

The agent's eyes widen in sudden realization. Monroe's gun wavers ever so slightly as she blinks her surprise. They weren't expecting this.

In that split moment, MacKenna cocks and levels Hobbes' gun at Monroe's head. The safety is off. "Drop it! Now!" she barks.

Monroe hesitates, torn between action and acquiescence.

She slowly bends down and stiffly places her gun on the floor at her feet. Without prompting, she kicks it away from her while uttering softly, "We're not here to capture you. Right now we just want to get Agent Fawkes back."

"Yeah, right," MacKenna growls.

"Fine, but it's the truth," she returns evenly.

MacKenna swallows hard as an invisible lightbulb goes off in the back of her mind, and then slowly removes the knife from Hobbes' throat. She secures it in a hidden sheath at the small of her back, and gently places her now free hand on his temple. She closes her eyes briefly, concentrating.

Monroe shoots Hobbes a questioning look, which he returns with a facially expressive negative.

MacKenna reopens her eyes, and speaks softly in his ear. "You can't lie to me."

He blinks suddenly unfocused eyes, momentarily entranced.

Her body sways as she removes her hand. Her nose begins to bleed again.

Hobbes lightly shivers off the remnants of fog from his mind. His eyes refocus on Monroe, who asks knowingly, "Bobby?"

He nods once, "Yah, I'm fine," and turns his head to look askance at MacKenna.

Her eyes are closed again, and he can see her desperately trying to quell the uncontrollable twitching of her muscles. The gun somehow remains fairly steady and is still aimed at Monroe, with only slight twitching coinciding with the worst of the seizures. As they fade, she reopens eyes mirroring the pain and exhaustion she feels. She clenches her teeth, and asks Hobbes, "Were you sent to bring me back?"

"No. We're supposed to find out where you are, and then call in a report," he replies.

"To whom?" she grits out.

"Agent Barnes," Monroe answers quietly.

She shoots a quelling glare at the other agent. "I wasn't asking you."

Hobbes nods once. "It's true."

She sprouts an ironic little smile. "So the little bastard's in charge now. _Hunh_... figures."

"He said the guy before him died the night you broke out."

"Oh, yeah. I wanted to make sure that _that_ freakin' sadist went out with a bang," she growls with a feral grin.

Something clicks in his mind, and he thinks out loud, "So, if you're the one Arnaud busted out, and you're with Chrysalis now, that means..."

Monroe blinks, coming to the same conclusion. "Means," she interrupts, "that de Fehrn and Stark are working together."

"Oh, this _sucks_," he mutters woefully.

MacKenna lightly shoves him away from her. He spins around to face her, and takes a couple of steps backward until he's beside Monroe.

The gun is still pointed at the two agents. "Is there any way I can convince you to not tell Barnes where I am?" she asks desperately.

Hobbes nods/shrugs noncommittally, and Monroe looks at him as if saying, _'You can't do that.'_

A moment passes, and MacKenna suddenly lowers the gun. It clatters to the floor, and she sways wildly as her knees buckle.

Being closer to the woman, Monroe catches her before she can hit the floor.

Hobbes hesitates as she begins to fall, then moves to help Monroe guide the exhausted woman to a chair. They gently set her limp body down, and Monroe checks her pulse. He fetches some paper towels from the kitchen for MacKenna to clean the blood from her face and shirt.

She studies them, being conscious the whole time. "I guess I don't have much of a choice, now," she comments weakly.

Hobbes regards her thoughtfully for a moment, and then taps Monroe lightly on the shoulder. She glances up at him, then rises and follows him a few steps away from the chair. She cocks her head questioningly, and he quietly comments, "She needs a doctor. We'd better check in with the Fat Man."

Monroe nods. "You do it; I'll see if she can remember anything else that'll help us find Fawkes."

Hobbes returns the nod, and walks out the door to make the call.


	5. Chapter Five

Friday, 2:30am

In The Official's office, Eberts is rapidly typing on his laptop, while He paces restlessly. They're both looking pretty rough around the edges, with their ties loosened and the top buttons of their shirts undone.

The phone rings, startling them both out of their respective reveries.

The Official strides briskly over to His desk and picks up the phone. "This is He," He answers gruffly. He listens as Hobbes discloses his 'sit-rep', nodding and emitting a "_Hm_," at various intervals.

Eberts cocks his head questioningly, and The Official mouths _'Hobbes'_ to him. The assistant nods, looking inquisitively anxious.

The Official waves for Eberts to go out the door. Understanding the unspoken request, he shoots out of his chair and heads to the lab to fetch Claire.

They enter the office a few moments later. She's rubbing the sleepies from her bleary eyes.

The Official waves Claire over to Him. He's sitting in His desk chair, occasionally scribbling notes in shorthand. She shoots Him a questioning look as she leans on the edge of His desk.

"Hold on, Bobby, I want Claire to hear this," He interrupts Hobbes, then pushes the phone's speaker button as He hangs up the handset.

_"Hey Keepie,"_ Hobbes greets Claire warmly. _"How you holdin' up?"_

"I'll feel better when Darien is back safe and sound," she replies wearily. "What's going on?"

_"Well, like I was telling the boss, we've come across some pretty hinky stuff here,"_ he starts, but then Monroe's voice murmurs something unintelligible in the background. _"Oh, give it up Monroe, it's a perfectly valid word,"_ he complains, and is about to continue, but The Official cuts him off.

"Never mind that. Keep going."

_"Well,"_ Hobbes continues a little huffily. _"We found the chick Arnaud busted out of that lab in Virginia. Turns out the 'good Doctor' has shacked up with Chrysalis."_

Eberts and Claire exchange disturbed looks, but The Official doesn't seem fazed.

_"And Amy here was actually some sort of experiment from that lab in Virginia. She says it's known as The Shop,"_ Hobbes continues.

"What?" barks The Official, palms pressed flat down on His desk as He half rises from His chair. He seems as upset and nervous at the mention of The Shop as He was when dealing with the Man With No Name during the initial incident with Dr. Gaither.

_"Yeah, we got ourselves the start of one helluva list for a human experiments' support group here,"_ Hobbes comments wryly.

Once again Monroe's voice is heard murmuring in the background.

_"All right, all right,"_ he replies in irritation. _"So anyway, Amy says Fawkes showed up at her place this afternoon around three thirty. Unfortunately, the 'Doctor' was 'in', and he managed to knock Fawkes out. An hour later, Stark shows up with his goons to pick Fawkes up. Arnaud went with them, but Amy isn't sure where."_

"So what's your next step?" The Official asks as He sinks back down in His chair.

_"Dunno, boss,"_ Hobbes replies heavily. _"We thought to check at Chrysalis HQ, but they probably figured we'd check there, and would've gone somewhere else."_

"Bobby, do you and Alex still have the vials I gave you earlier?" Claire asks worriedly.

_"Yah. Don't worry Keep, we'll get 'im back... somehow,"_ he replies with false confidence.

She doesn't look very comforted. "Bobby, by now Darien could very well have gone into Phase Three madness. At the _least_. There's no more time; we need to get him back... now."

He sighs in frustration, and Eberts' face suddenly brightens as he has a revelation. "Robert, did you happen to find Darien's phone there?"

There's a moment of silence before he replies, _"No, we haven't seen it anywhere. Why?"_

Eberts looks thoughtful, and eagerly explains, "There may be a chance that Darien still has his phone, and if it's still on..."

"So?" The Official grumbles distractedly.

_"Yeah, Eberts. So?" _Hobbes echoes The Official, albeit a bit more impatiently. _"How can that help us find... Oh-ho!"_ he exclaims as he finally understands what the man was getting at.

Claire is looking hopefully at the assistant. "Do you think you could track Darien again, through the signal?"

He nods excitedly. "As long as the charge hasn't worn out on the battery."

The Official claps His hands down decisively on the desk. "Eberts, you and Claire track that signal. Hobbes, you and Monroe bring this woman in. I want her in protective custody until all this is sorted out."

_"Got it, boss,"_ Hobbes replies. _"Just one problem."_

"What," He snaps, unwilling to bear one more complication.

_"A: She doesn't wanna come with us, and B: if we do get her in there, Claire's gonna have to take a look at her."_

She glances questioningly at the phone, having already halfway crossed the room to Eberts' worktable. "Why? What's the matter?"

_"It's a bit complicated to go into right now,"_ he replies cryptically. _"Just be sure you have a couple pints of O-positive blood ready... just in case."_

Her brows furrow together in concern. "Bobby, you didn't..."

_"No, no,"_ he reassures._ "She just has this problem with... nosebleeds."_

She's not buying it. "A nosebleed wouldn't necessitate..."

_"Just trust me on this,"_ he interrupts quickly. _"We'll explain when we get in. ETA's twenty minutes."_

"Understood," The Official verifies. "And I don't care if she doesn't want to come. One way or another, you get her in here... capiche?"

_"Yah, got it Chief. See you soon,"_ Hobbes replies, then hangs up.

The Official cuts off the phone and looks up at Claire and Eberts. "Let's get moving, people," He orders wearily.

They nod, and she sits down next to him as they pull up his previous calculations on the laptop.

A few moments after he finishes speaking with The Official and the others, Hobbes re-enters MacKenna's living room from the kitchen area.

She's arguing with Monroe as he rejoins them, tucking the phone inside his jacket. "Look, I'm _not_ going with you. There's absolutely no reason for me to..."

Monroe is standing a few feet away from the chair with her arms crossed. "No, there's every reason for you to come," she returns firmly. "When Stark finds out you've been talking with us, he's likely to kill you himself."

MacKenna shakes her head. "He told me to expect a visit from your precious little Agency," she retorts. "If anything, he'll send me somewhere else where I can finally have some peace and quiet."

"Yeah, it's called a graveyard," Hobbes comments dryly as he joins the 'discussion'.

MacKenna swings her head to glare at Hobbes. "Ha ha... very funny," she snaps.

"I'm not kidding," he returns calmly. "Stark has absolutely no tolerance with his people 'consorting with the enemy'. He shot the last woman who lived here himself when he found out she and Fawkes were... involved."

"What do you mean... 'involved'?"

"They'd been... dating?" Monroe clarifies, glancing at Hobbes uncertainly.

"Sort of," he answers.

"Aaaaahh," MacKenna breathes knowingly as she shakes her head a little. But her amusement fades as his second to last sentence sinks in. She looks sharply at both agents. "Waitaminute. Why would Mr. Stark do that?"

"Like I said, no tolerance," Hobbes comments with a small shrug. "There was this other guy from Chrysalis, too: didn't like some of the stuff they were doing to kids, and contacted us with the info. Stark found out about the leak, and plugged it."

"Permanently," Monroe adds.

MacKenna's expression becomes troubled.

"Not to mention Stark's own wife turned on him when he told her he'd rather see their kid die before letting us take him back to his real family," Hobbes adds, oblivious to the effect his words would have on Monroe. She turns her head away, hiding her reaction to the mention of her son.

"What was her name?" MacKenna asks thoughtfully.

"Stark's wife?" Hobbes prompts.

"No, the woman who lived here," she replies quietly.

Monroe dons her coat while he replies, "Alianora."

Her eyes widen slightly in recognition. "I've heard that name mentioned. Never around Mr. Stark, though. I guess now I know why," she murmurs, still looking troubled.

"So will you _please_ come with us now?" Monroe asks, impatient and wanting to go.

MacKenna nods slowly, deep in thought.

Hobbes holds out a hand and helps her to stand. She sways, still weak from blood loss, and he steadies her. He nods to Monroe, who precedes them to the door.

"Wait," MacKenna stops at the door. "Shoes."

He stands close enough for her to lean on him if necessary. She pulls on a pair of tennis shoes and grabs another shirt from a chair beside the door.

Monroe holds open the door, and they exit the apartment. She closes the inner door, and the screen door silently swings shut behind her as she walks towards the van.

Friday, 3:00am

The door slides open to The Keeper's lab, and Monroe enters with MacKenna leaning heavily on her arm. She's changed into the clean shirt. Monroe leads her to the 'demented dentist's' chair and helps her onto it. She leans back and closes her eyes, looking extremely pale.

"Does he drive like that all the time?" she asks a little breathlessly.

Monroe walks over to the sink, picks up a clean glass and fills it with cold tap water. "I'm afraid so," she replies wryly. She turns, walks back to the chair and hands the glass to the other woman. She accepts it without opening her eyes and takes a few small sips before handing it back to Monroe with a murmured "Thanks."

The lab door slides open, and Hobbes, Claire, Eberts and The Official all enter.

MacKenna cracks open an eye, and wryly comments "Well. Hail, hail, the gang's all here."

Hobbes and Monroe shake their heads slightly, amused. Eberts' eyebrows twitch in inquiry. Claire and The Official, however, don't look like they have much of a sense of humor at the moment.

Claire strides over to MacKenna, and begins to check her vitals. She seems moderately concerned with how the woman looks.

"You look horrible," she exclaims as she picks up a blood pressure cuff and fastens it around MacKenna's uninjured arm. She inflates the cuff, and listens intently for a moment. Then, she re-inflates the cuff two more times, not believing what she's heard.

"Flatterer," MacKenna quips, exhausted. She leans her head back on the chair, once again closing her eyes. "I guess you could say I've traveled far, and suffered much," she murmurs as the cuff is inflated for the second time.

Monroe and Hobbes each raise an eyebrow, remembering that he'd facetiously uttered the same sentiment hours earlier.

Meanwhile, Eberts has positioned himself at the partial wall separating the lab from the exam room.

The Official stands at the foot of the chair, and regards MacKenna darkly. "How did she get like this?"

"Well, she has, this, thing, that makes her have nosebleeds," Hobbes starts.

"And seizures," Monroe adds.

The Official and Eberts simultaneously cock their heads to the side in puzzlement. "I don't follow," He grunts.

"It's not that difficult to understand, Mr. Borden," MacKenna speaks up, opening heavy eyelids to regard him with moderate amusement. She smiles wearily at his shocked expression. "One tends to pick up tidbits of information when doctors and guards don't know or care if one's listening," she explains. "Your name's popped up a few times in conversations... yours too, Agent Monroe," she nods at the 5-star agent, whose eyes widen in surprise. "... And over the years, I've learned to keep track of it all up here." She points to her head with her right hand, wincing at the twinge from her wound. "You both have, interesting, track records," she finishes, smiling knowingly.

The Official stands stiffly, blinking in astonishment. He gives Himself a small shake and warily regards her. He opens His mouth to utter something, but just then Claire pipes up.

Turning to the fridge, she calls over her shoulder, "Bobby, would you bring that IV stand over to the chair, please."

He complies, contemplating the ramifications of MacKenna's last comment.

She opens the bottom of the fridge to pull out a bag of blood.

In the corner, Eberts blanches when he sees it. He turns his head away to intently study the fish tank over in the other side of the room.

She comes back to the chair, and hangs the bag up on the stand. "Thank you Bobby," she says absently as she inserts the IV needle into MacKenna's arm.

He gets that small, infatuated smile reserved only for Claire.

MacKenna doesn't react at all to the puncturing of her arm, and bemusedly watches as the blood begins to flow into her vein.

"I could barely get a reading on your blood pressure," Claire mildly scolds. "How is it that you could've lost so much blood from just a nosebleed?"

The woman blinks, and brings her attention back to the here-and-now. Looking the doctor in the eyes, she replies, "They aren't nosebleeds, necessarily." She pauses, and explains further as Claire frowns in disbelief. "My brain tends to hemorrhage when I overuse my... gift." She rolls the last word around in her mouth as if it tasted like feces. "The doctors installed a shunt into my sinuses, which helps minimize pressure on my brain. The seizures are a side effect from excessive production of certain neurochemicals."

"Oh, that made sense," Hobbes mutters.

Claire's expression changes slightly, becoming more thoughtful.

"Have you read any Stephen King?" MacKenna continues to Claire.

She shakes her head. "I'm familiar with his work, but I don't take much time for that kind of recreational reading."

MacKenna smiles her understanding. "Do you know the basic story line in Firestarter?"

Eberts pipes up. "Ah, yes, I do. It's about a couple that volunteered for an experiment while they were in college. They had a child a few years later, who could start fires with her... mind." His face twists apologetically at the seeming farfetchedness of the notion.

"Eberts," The Official growls quellingly.

He ducks his head, but MacKenna states, "Can it, Charlie." Her gaze returns to Eberts as she continues. "Exactly. You remember that both of the girl's parents got their own 'abilities' from that experiment?"

He nods as he rapidly accesses old memories.

"Wasn't the mother telekinetic?" Monroe interjects.

MacKenna nods while Eberts continues. "And the father could make people, do things..." he trails off as he tries to remember the rest of it.

"I didn't know you liked that kind of stuff," Hobbes mutters in an aside to Monroe.

"There's a lot about me you still don't know, Bobby," she murmurs back suggestively.

He just grins.

Meanwhile, MacKenna is smiling tentatively at Eberts. "Yeah, that's it. He referred to it as 'pushing'. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" she directs her last comment to Hobbes and Monroe, who each respectively look thoughtful and slightly unnerved.

MacKenna gazes at Claire, who's trying to interpret the logistics behind the medical procedure(s) performed to achieve such an outcome.

"Believe me, this ain't something you figure out in a few minutes, Doctor. It took them nearly eight years of fiddling to get me working this well."

"'Fiddling'." The Official mutters.

"Yeah, as in surgery. And lots of it," she replies, repulsed with the memories.

"I wonder what exactly they did," Claire quietly thinks out loud as she prepares to place a thermometer in MacKenna's mouth.

The woman closes her eyes again as she sighs deeply. "It's still a pretty sore subject for me, so I'd rather not talk about it for a while. Like, maybe... never? ... But if you'd like, sometime I'll show you the scars from where they cut me open."

Claire frowns as she checks MacKenna's pulse, unsure of whether or not she's being facetious. She moves to place the thermometer in the woman's mouth, and MacKenna warns, "I run pretty hot, so don't be alarmed when you see my temp." Then she glances up at the others and talks around the thermometer in her mouth. "Anyway, aren't you guys supposed to be out looking for your other friend?"

"Ah! Yes!" Eberts exclaims, suddenly remembering something important. "I've... we've," Eberts corrects himself, nodding to Claire, "made some progress in tracking Darien's whereabouts."

The Official cuts him off. "Not here, Eberts. Doctor, stay here and keep an eye on our guest. People, follow me." He strides towards the door, and Eberts, Monroe and Hobbes follow; kind of like ducklings following Papa Drake to the pond.

"I'd be better able to care for you if I knew more about your history," Claire begins explaining to MacKenna as the lab door slides shut behind Hobbes. She's slightly turned away from the chair, checking for air bubbles in the bag of blood. When she turns to look at MacKenna, she realizes that the battered woman has passed out.

She removes the thermometer and glances at the reading. It's 102.6F. She frowns and places a gentle palm on the woman's forehead. Reluctantly at first, she smoothes away wisps of hair from the pale, hot face. A moment passes as Claire enigmatically regards the sleeping woman. Then she turns and covers MacKenna with a warm blanket before wearily returning to her computer on the other side of the lab.

oOo

A few minutes later, the Official's office door opens, and Monroe, Eberts and Hobbes start out into the hallway as they finish their discussion on how to find and rescue Darien.

"So you're sure this's right," Hobbes asks Eberts as the door opens.

"It's the same program I used to triangulate his location earlier, Robert," he replies a bit acerbically.

"Yeah, well, look how accurate _that_ was," Hobbes mutters, just loud enough for the assistant to hear.

He opens his mouth to take offense, and Monroe intervenes. "Bobby, stop pestering Eberts. He's done remarkably, especially so late in the evening."

"Thank you," Eberts gleams, pleased that she's sticking up for him.

"We're all tired," The Official utters from His desk, "And taking your frustrations out on each other doesn't bring Fawkes home any sooner."

Hobbes reluctantly drops his eyes from Eberts', muttering "Sorry, Eberts."

"It's all right, Robert. I'm worried about him, too," he returns magnanimously as he pats the other man on the shoulder.

Hobbes glances coldly at the offending hand, of which Eberts quickly withdraws.

Monroe ignores Hobbes, and gently takes a sheet of paper from Eberts' hand.

"You've been a huge help, Albert. Thank you," she expresses warmly. "C'mon, Bobby, let's go." She turns to leave, but Hobbes stops her.

"Hold on a sec. I wanna check on Claire and Amy first."

"Hobbes..." Monroe protests, irritated at what she felt was an unnecessary delay. "Let the woman rest. Claire's got a handle on things in there."

He ignores her, and enters the lab.

Claire is sitting at her computer with her back to the door, her head resting on her arms. She's just fallen asleep.

MacKenna is still sleeping in the lab chair, with the blanket pulled up to her collarbone. The transfusion is almost finished, and it's made quite an improvement on her complexion. The color has begun to come back into her cheeks, and her sickly pallor has almost completely faded.

As Hobbes and Monroe quietly step into the lab, MacKenna's eyes snap open. The paranoid panic in them begins to fade as she remembers where she is. She opens her mouth to speak, but Hobbes puts a silencing finger to his mouth, indicating the slumbering doctor with a jerk of his head.

She glances at Claire, and then nods an acknowledgement. She raises her chin, wordlessly asking the two agents to come closer.

Once they're beside her, she softly asks, ";So, you know where he is?"

Hobbes nods. "Yeah, we're just leaving."

MacKenna nods, and begins to sit up and remove the blanket.

Monroe stops her with a hand on her arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

As she opens her mouth to answer, Monroe shakes her head in anticipation of what she thinks the other woman is going to say. "No way. You're in no shape to go with us."

Hobbes blinks, mildly surprised that MacKenna was interested in joining them. "Why?"

She flips the blanket completely off of her legs, and carefully swings them over the side of the chair. "I've been thinking ever since we left the apartment," she murmurs. "And I think I've figured out a few things."

"Like..." Monroe prompts.

"Like the fact that I've been asked to 'push' Arnaud," she motions with her hands as if she were holding someone's head between them, "a lot over the past few days."

"Why?" Hobbes wonders.

"Mr. Stark explained that Arnaud had become unstable since he went, you know, see-through, and that my... 'special talent' was exactly what they needed to keep him from completely going off the deep end," she replies.

"I'd say it's a little too late for that," he mutters sarcastically.

She grins. "Hmm. You might be right there. That man has more unfocused rage than I do."

"That would explain why you were so tapped out after we showed up," Monroe comments thoughtfully.

MacKenna nods. "Usually it's pretty easy imposing my will on others, but with Arnaud, I dunno... it's been... different." She frowns, rubbing her fingers as she remembers the shocks, then continues. "Mr. Stark thought that might have to do with our... modifications."

Hobbes nods, intrigued with what he's hearing.

"I'm just not ready to trust anyone... yet. Including you," she remarks thoughtfully. "Anyway, I figure it'd be easier for you to get Agent Fawkes back if you had me there to trade."

"I think we can handle this without putting you in any more danger," Monroe returns.

MacKenna shakes her head with an ironic smile. "I doubt that very much, Agent Monroe. If what you said about Mr. Stark is true, he'll terminate me the first chance he gets anyway. That's one too many special interests out for my head, so I'd rather just settle this now."

Hobbes and Monroe regard her thoughtfully for a moment.

"Give us a second," Hobbes tells her, taking Monroe aside for a private conference.

MacKenna nods, and turns her attention to carefully removing the IV needle from her arm.

"What do you think?" he asks Monroe.

She shakes her head, unsure if this was such a good idea. "For all we know, this whole thing could've been a setup from the start. I just don't have a good feeling about it."

Hobbes smiles in irony. "Gee, that sounds familiar."

She shoots him a _'Ha ha, you're sooo funny'_ glare, and continues as if she hadn't heard him. "Even if she was on the level with us, she'd still be a liability in a fight. I'd feel more comfortable if she stayed here."

Hobbes shakes his head. "I think she's legit. She's coming."

He turns and approaches MacKenna, who looks up at him questioningly.

In an exasperated tone, Monroe mutters, "Why did you bother to ask my opinion if you weren't even going to listen to it?" and remains where she is with arms folded and resisting the urge to strangle him.

Meanwhile, Hobbes is saying to the other woman, "You can come with us, but you have to stay out of sight, and do everything we tell you. Got it?"

She snorts in amusement. "Yes sir." She jauntily salutes him, smiling at her private joke before glancing at Monroe. "Don't worry, Agent Monroe. I've learned how to take care of myself. I won't hold you back."

"Whatever," Monroe murmurs dryly. "Let's get moving before they decide to move him somewhere else." She heads out through the lab door, followed by MacKenna and then Hobbes.

As the door slides shut, Claire's seen still fast asleep in her chair.


	6. Chapter Six End of Part One

Hobbes' van pulls up at the end of a stately brick warehouse around 3:45am. With only the parking lights on, he stops just outside of the circle of light cast by the warehouses' floodlight. There's a large brass plaque at the corner of the building, designating it as "**_#4_**".

"This is it," he murmurs quietly, double-checking the map that Eberts had given them earlier. He carefully sets the paper down on the floor in between the front seats. "Are we clear on the plan?" he directs his question to both women.

They nod, and MacKenna replies, "I stay here in the van with this," she holds up a cell phone, "and listen for signs of trouble on your end. Any problems, I hang up immediately and call Charlie for backup."

Monroe nods from the passenger seat. "Make sure to keep your head down. Keep at the back of the van in case any sentries come by."

MacKenna nods affirmation. "Got it. Hey, do you think I should have a gun?"

Hobbes and Monroe answer simultaneously with a vehement "NO."

She shrugs. "I guess it's better if I stick with my knife." She instinctively touches the wicked blade sheathed at the small of her back. "You guys'd better get a move on. Who knows what they're doing to your friend."

"Right." Hobbes takes the keys from the ignition and tucks them in the visor above him. He turns to glance at MacKenna and warns, "Don't leave the van for anything, got it?"

She nods, and he continues. "Monroe'll call you on her phone a minute or so after we're around the corner there," he gestures at the edge of the warehouse, approximately ten yards away. "Whatever you do, don't say or do anything that'd give us away."

"Okay, got it. How will I know if you're in trouble?"

"You'll hear gunfire," Monroe replies dryly as she opens her door and slips out.

Hobbes exits the van, and joins her at the front. MacKenna observes them use a couple of hand signals and head gestures before moving towards the corner of the warehouse.

"Good luck," she murmurs as she makes herself comfortable at the back of the van.

Hobbes and Monroe carefully make their way to a stack of pallets a few feet from the door of the warehouse.

There's a man smoking a cigarette and obviously guarding the door. No one else seems to be around.

The two agents glance wordlessly at each other, and Monroe nods as she pulls out a tranquilizer gun from her coat pocket. She takes a moment to aim between the pallet slats, then fires.

_Pffft!_

The man raises a hand to slap the mosquito he thinks has bitten him. With a _'What the...'_ look on his face, he drops to the pavement.

Hobbes comes out and quickly drags the man behind the pallets, while Monroe pulls out her cell phone and calls MacKenna.

The phone in her hand rings, and MacKenna opens it. "Yah," she murmurs.

_"We're going in,"_ Monroe replies just as quietly. _"Whatever you do, don't make any noise, got it?"_

"Got it. Luck," she whispers, and keeps the phone to her head as Monroe carefully places the phone in her other empty coat pocket and pulls out her gun. She switches off the safety and nods to Hobbes, who is just finishing tying and gagging the Chrysalis agent. He rises with Monroe and silently cracks open the door. She quickly steps inside and sweeps the interior with her eyes and firearm.

Nothing.

He enters just behind her, careful that the door swings quietly shut. They note a long hallway (about 90 yards long) with a few doors on either side.

He looks at her as if he's saying _'Now what?'_.

She shrugs slightly, and takes the lead down the hall. She puts her ear on the first door she comes to. Hearing nothing, she pulls away and shakes her head to him. He proceeds to the next door on the other side of the corridor, and mimics her actions.

Again, nothing.

They slowly make their way down the hallway, listening at each door they come to. At the end is a stairwell going up, and to the left are the closed doors of a freight elevator.

This time she covers him as he silently opens the door and edges into the stairwell. He looks up to see if anyone is on the stairs above him. After a moment, he nods to her that the way is clear, and they carefully make their way up to the next floor.

The stairs end at the second story, and he listens to the stairwell door before slowly opening it. He pops his head through the doorway and quickly scans the area inside. Waving to her, he strides in to another hallway, but this time it's much shorter.

To their left is the lift, open and waiting for someone to send it down. To their right the hall ends at a lavatory and cleaning closet. In front of them are two giant wood doors, with one ajar about a foot or so.

There are faint voices coming from inside.

They each position themselves on either side of the doors, with Hobbes holding his gun as if to pistol-whip someone. Monroe exchanges her firearm for the tranquilizer gun. They listen intently to the voices for a moment, hearing if anyone was coming their way.

One voice sounded like it was.

She aims the tranq. gun at the point where the person would first show in her sights, and he tenses for the inevitable struggle.

"I'll see how Aaron's doing," the male voice comments, and the door pushes open another two or so feet. Dude appears, still looking over his shoulder. As he clears the doorway, Hobbes cold-cocks him behind the ear. Making sure that Dude stays down, Monroe fires the tranquilizer gun the same time that Hobbes strikes the man.

With nary a peep, Dude drops like a stone.

The two agents catch Dude before he hits the floor, and drag him to the cleaning closet. She keeps watch while he quickly trusses and gags him. Hobbes closes the closet door on the sleeping Chrysalis agent, and they sneak back to their previous positions at the double doors.

Hobbes listens intently, and raises a finger for each individual voice he hears.

One... two... three... four... five?

Edging his head around the open door, he sneaks a quick peek of the interior, and then jerks back. Monroe looks at him expectantly, and he shakes his head.

He mouths that he'll count to three, and then they'll storm in and surprise the people inside the room. She nods her understanding, and he lifts one, two, three fingers...

They rush through the doors, and simultaneously shout, "FREEZE!"

All movement in the room ceases for a moment, and then all hell breaks loose.

Stark and two Chrysalis agents scramble from a table on the left side of the room as they free their guns and start firing.

The two agents split up and run for cover.

He darts to his right, and positions himself behind a set of file cabinets.

She's caught out in the open with no useful cover, she drops to one knee and starts picking off men just like the shoot-the-duck booth at a carnival.

Hobbes keeps Stark occupied so he doesn't have a chance to shoot her.

In the middle-right of the large room is an impromptu operating theatre encased in plastic. Inside, seemingly oblivious to the firefight around them, are two figures on either side of an operating table.

Guess who's getting sliced?

The gunfire halts for a moment, and a voice is heard screaming, "Would someone please get me the HELL _OUTTA_ HERE!"

The agents are momentarily distracted, realizing that something disastrous was about to happen to Darien. He suddenly thrashes on the operating table. The two figures on either side of him step back, and then close in as the seizures stop.

Stark takes the opportunity to reload his gun, rise and aim at Monroe's head.

Hobbes notices the movement, quickly aims his gun and fires.

Stark shoots just as the bullet from the other man's gun rips through his shoulder. He falls over backwards, his gun flying.

Monroe cries out and falls to the floor, clutching her thigh.

"Alex!" Hobbes shouts and, still keeping his gun trained on Stark's immobile form, bolts over to her. He kneels down and carefully moves her leg so he can get a better look at where the bullet hit her.

She reflexively swings a fist at him, clipping him on the shoulder. He staggers back a step, then grabs her fist and forces it down. He holsters his gun and fiercely whispers to her, "Quit it and let me look!"

Monroe forcibly calms herself, and allows Hobbes to check the wound.

"It's nothing... just a flesh wound," she grits out between her teeth. "Go... Get Fawkes... I'll be fine!" She puts a hand on the entrance wound and presses down as hard as she can.

Hobbes hesitates for a moment, and she glares at him. "_Go_, Bobby! I'll cover you!" She picks up her fallen gun with a surprisingly steady hand.

Nodding, he pulls out a handkerchief and helps her tie it on as a temporary bandage. Then he rises while pulling out his gun. He takes a few cautious steps towards the operating theatre, and a familiar voice calls out a warning.

"I suggest you stay where you are, Agent Hobbes. I have quite a few very sharp instruments at hand that can damage Darien horribly," de Fehrn states smugly.

"Just wait and see how I use them on you," Darien calmly threatens, his head rearing back to smile murder at the mercenary.

"Yes, well, I suggest you lie still and let the anesthetic do its work," de Fehrn warns. "It's not very pleasant listening to the screams of the person you're operating on."

"Don't even move towards that gland," Hobbes growls from the other side of the plastic.

"What are you going to do, shoot me?" de Fehrn laughs. "I wouldn't recommend it, since my colleague will just kill your partner if you do."

Hobbes squints and takes aim at the mercenary's head as Monroe calls out, "Hobbes, you take de Fehrn. I've got the assistant."

"Well, well, the indomitable Agent Monroe isn't dead," de Fehrn comments. "It sounded like Stark had shot you."

"He shoots like a girl," she comments with a feral grin.

Darien begins to seize again.

"I guess this means that once again we'll have to reschedule our little date, so that I can... _finally_... kill you." de Fehrn sadly drops his scalpel on the rolling tray beside him as Darien collapses back down on the table.

Hobbes carefully edges through the heavy plastic, his gun never wavering from de Fehrn's head. "You even move like you're going see-through, and I air out your brain," he darkly threatens as he steps closer to the head of the table.

Darien is lying face down, with his head tilted at the optimal angle for gland extraction. His shirt had been removed, and, judging by the bruises darkening all over his torso, he'd been used as a human punching bag earlier on in the evening. Straps firmly secured his wrists, upper back (at the armpits) and his ankles to the table. Blood's crept out from under the straps, where his skin is rubbed raw from both the seizures and his struggles to free himself.

He's lying ominously still.

Hobbes touches him on the shoulder. It's scorching hot.

"Hey, partner, wake up. Time to check out of this dump," he quips in an effort to lighten the heavy feeling in his gut with humor.

It doesn't work.

And Darien doesn't move.

"It seems the anesthesia has finally kicked in," de Fehrn notes wryly.

The assistant just stands there with his arms raised in surrender.

"Monroe, we got a problem," Hobbes calls out. "Fawkes's out cold."

"Well, don't ask _me_ to carry him," she snaps. "We'd better get out of here, in case Stark has reinforcements coming."

"Well, well, whatever will we do now?" de Fehrn asks with a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Just shut up and let me think..." Hobbes starts, but is interrupted as Darien's arm suddenly Quicksilvers and shoots out at the mercenary's midsection. de Fehrn grunts, blanches, and looks down. He's puzzled to see a scalpel flaking Quicksilver sticking out of his side, with blood already oozing around the deeply embedded blade. The blood flow increases as he moves to touch it.

Darien pushes himself up with an evil grin on his face. He watches as de Fehrn goes into shock, and comments blithely, "Remind you of another 'date' we had?" Then he twists his torso in order to free his other hand. Unsuccessful, he glances at his partner and queries, "Are you going to stand there with your mouth open all night? Or are you going to help me with these?"

Hobbes' stomach clenches as he stares into his partner's eyes.

They're red and black.

"Ah crap," he mutters, and stays put.

"Robert? Helloooo," Darien's voice drops menacingly. "You'd better help me with these things, Robert, or I'll have to be angry with you, too." His eyes glitter with malice as he strains to unbuckle the restraints first at his chest, and then at his feet. Hobbes resists the urge to fall back a step... or ten.

Something splats softly onto the floor.

Hobbes' eyes dart to where de Fehrn is standing.

Correction... _was_ standing.

The synthesized skin, gloves and doctors' smock are all lying in a pile on the floor beside the operating table. There's a tiny puddle of blood partially covered by the discarded items, and a trail of blood spatter heading towards a door in the back of the room.

"Double crap," he mutters in frustration. When Darien's back in his right mind, he's going to be so pissed that Arnaud got away... again. "Why is it that every time we run into Arnaud it feels like some kinda bad soap opera?" he grumbles as he turns his gun on the assistant.

The terrified man raises his hands even higher, stammering, "Don't shoot, p-p-p-please don't shoot me!"

"What's the matter?" Monroe calls out.

"Arnaud's gone," Hobbes calls back in disgust.

"Crap." She sounds a little weak. "Stark's gone too. de Fehrn must've carried him out."

"I am, _very_, disappointed in you, Robert," Darien murmurs huskily.

Hobbes lowers his gun and snaps at the assistant, "Go see if Agent Monroe needs any help."

de Fehrn's assistant hastily backpedals until he's clear of the plastic and hurries over to Monroe, who is starting to feel a bit woozy from shock.

Holstering his gun, Hobbes turns back to Darien. "Alright, Fawkesy, let's get you set up..." but is interrupted by hands suddenly clenching his windpipe.

Darien has managed to free himself from all of the restraints, swing his legs over the side of the table, and is now focusing all of his pent up rage on Hobbes.

"Fawkes, _kkkkkkhh_... quit it, willya? _kkkkkkkhh_..." Hobbes manages to sputter out. His fingers reflexively claw at his friend's in a vain effort to loosen them.

"You let him get away... _again_, Robert. Why is that, do you think?" Darien re-centers his thumbs on his partner's windpipe. "Maybe you and Arnaud worked out some sort of an 'arrangement', hmmm? He scratches your back, you scratch his? Well, never again, you _hear me!_" He bears down on his friend, who is quickly turning a dark shade of purple.

A hand snakes around Darien's shoulder, plunging a hypodermic needle into the side of his neck. The hypo hisses slightly as it dispenses the sedative into his bloodstream.

He suddenly releases Hobbes, begins to Quicksilver, and whirls to strike the dumbass that...

"Don't be a peckerhead," MacKenna murmurs just before she grabs his head.

There's a crackling sound, as if from a lightning strike, and the two jerk like puppets on strings and cry out before collapsing bonelessly to the floor.

MacKenna's eyes roll up into her head as she begins to thrash violently in the throes of a grand mal seizure, while Darien twitches uncontrollably as he tries to grab his head in agony.

Hobbes hoarsely bellows to Monroe as he hurries to keep the two from hurting themselves, "Alex, call Claire! We need her, _now_!"

Monroe yells at Arnaud's assistant, "Help me up!"

The man assists her as she simultaneously pulls out her cell phone and limps towards Hobbes and the others. She first disconnects, and then speed dials The Keeper's direct line.

_"H-hello?" _Claire's voice answers the phone. She sounds as if the ringing of the phone has jarred her awake.

"Claire, we need you down here right now," Monroe grits out. The pain in her leg is making her dizzy, and she clutches the man's arm. He's trying very hard to hold her up without them both toppling over.

_"What's the matter? What's happened?"_ the doctor asks, worried, her fatigue burning away as adrenaline surges with the pounding of her heart.

"No time to explain. Bring your medical kit; Darien and Amanda are in serious trouble here," Monroe gasps between the waves of pain shooting up her body.

_"Are you hurt, too?"_

"Yeah, shot in the leg. Just get down to the warehouse district. Secure Storages' commercial lot, building four, in the back, upstairs."

_"We're on our way,"_ Claire replies briskly, and the two hang up just as Monroe and the assistant reach the plastic curtain.

He reaches out and parts the plastic. She staggers into the operating theatre, grabbing the table to steady herself. He stands frozen, staring at the now limp bodies of the two experimentals. MacKenna's ears and nostrils steadily stream blood, and Darien's nose has a tiny rivulet of red softly dripping onto the floor beside him.

Hobbes glances up as Monroe and the assistant enters, and is taken aback at how pale she looks. He rises quick as a shot, reaches around the operating table and catches Monroe as her knees begin to buckle. He helps her onto the table, snarling to the assistant, "Elevate that leg, make her comfortable, then get over here and help me!"

His tone snaps the man out of his shocked daze, and he carefully raises the lower third of the table so that her legs are elevated above her heart. She twists her head to watch as Hobbes checks the other's pulses again.

A tense moment passes.

He looks back up at her, hesitates, and nods bleakly. Both of their heartbeats are there, but they're very faint. Returning his attention to Darien and MacKenna, he checks the rise and fall of their chests.

They're barely breathing.

He busies himself by untangling the two from each other, while checking for anything they might have broken when they fell.

The assistant, seeing an opportunity as soon as the two agents' attention becomes totally focused on their fallen comrades, slowly edges backwards to the plastic. Steeling himself, he whips around, darts out from the operating theatre and disappears through the back door.

Hobbes half rises from his position beside Darien when he notices the assistant making a run for it, hesitates, and decides to let the man go.

He drops back down, fishing out the one vial the Keeper had given him earlier. He snags the hypo that MacKenna dropped and exchanges the empty sedative bottle for the one full of the hormone blocker. He looks for a viable vein in Darien's arm, and injects the serum. He then gets the other tube from Monroe and carefully injects the small amount of counteragent directly into the gland.

The lanky man doesn't even twitch.

There's a flurry of movement at the front of the room, and Hobbes dives through the plastic, lands on one knee, and aims his gun...

At Claire.

"Bobby," she admonishes him testily. "Where are they?" She searches the room with her eyes.

The Official and Eberts enter the room with two other agents, their guns drawn and ready for a fight.

Hobbes quickly deflates in relief (much like a punctured beach ball) at the arrival of reinforcements, and holsters his gun. "Behind the plastic. Monroe's on the table, Fawkes and Amy're behind her on the floor."

Claire and the other men hurry over to the injured.

The adrenaline begins to fade, and Hobbes begins to feel really tired as he attempts to rise. Eberts hurries over and takes his arm to help him up. He peers up at the subordinate, puzzled by the show of concern, and gratefully utters, "Thank you. Eberts."

The assistant smiles wearily, and automatically brushes some dirt and lint from the back of Hobbes' suit jacket. He jerks away and strides over to see what he can do to help Claire. Eberts trails along behind him, un-offended at his abrupt reaction. They part the plastic, and Claire looks up from Darien's prone body. He, MacKenna and Monroe have all been wrapped securely in blankets. She raises a finger, indicating that she needs a moment more of silence. Gently lowering Darien's wrist to his chest, her eyes refocus on Hobbes.

"Did you give him the sedative?"

He shakes his head. "Actually, Amy did it. But I did give him the blocker and counteragent."

"What happened to them?" Claire asks worriedly.

Hobbes opens his mouth to reply, but...

"Never mind," she cuts him off. "Tell me on the way back to the lab." She rises and begins to give orders to the other agents. "You," she points to the man standing by Monroe. "Please take Agent Monroe to the hospital."

He nods, gently picks up and carries the weakened woman out of the room.

"The rest of you... help me with them," she gestures to the other four men, and turns back to her two unconscious charges.

Hobbes and Eberts each take one of MacKenna's arms, carefully pick up and carry her out of the room in between them on their interlocked arms. She briefly rouses, mumbling something unintelligible before lapsing back into oblivion.

The remaining agent picks up Darien in a fireman's carry and follows the others out of the room.

Claire opens up her mouth to admonish the agent on how he's handling Darien, then glances at The Official. He shakes His head as if saying, _'It's not that big of a deal.'_ She purses her lips in disapprovement, and then joins him in hurrying out of the warehouse.

Friday, 8:30am

The morning sunlight gleams through the narrow blinds onto The Official's desk, where He sits with His head leaning back in His chair. His eyes are closed, resting.

Eberts is sitting at the table across the room, busying himself with nothing in particular. He seems to feel better during a crisis when he's doing something useful and efficient.

Monroe is slumped, half-asleep, in one of the chairs in front of The Official's desk with her feet propped up on the other chair. There's a bulky dressing directly over her knee, with her pants leg cut off at the top of her thigh.

The office door opens, and Claire closes her eyes as she leans on the sill, exhausted.

At the sound of the door opening, everyone snaps alert and focuses their gazes on The Keeper. She sighs deeply as she runs a hand through her disheveled hair.

The Official actually looks upset and worried. "Well?" He asks pointedly, with what feels like a million questions and concerns contained in that one tiny word.

She opens her bloodshot eyes and replies huskily, "They've stabilized, for now..." she trails off, reluctant to tell them the rest of the news.

"And?" Monroe's picked up that she isn't telling them the worst of it. "What's the bad news?"

Eberts has half-risen from his chair, and still has a form in his hands. He unconsciously begins to wring it.

Claire raises her eyes to look at first The Official and then Monroe. "They're comatose." The words drop like bombshells.

Eberts sits back down numbly in his chair.

"How bad is it?" The Official's voice is husky.

"Whatever Amanda did to Darien, it's shorted out most of his brain. His blood pressure has finally risen to an acceptable level, but only after I gave him two blood transfusions. I don't know what kind of damage, if any, was done to the gland."

"And how's she?" Monroe questions.

Claire shakes her head. "One minute she's flatlined, the next there's activity throughout her brain."

"What can we do now?" Eberts manages to ask. He looks ready to collapse.

"I've done everything I can for them." Claire fixes The Official with a defiant glare that dares him to try and protest. "I need help with this."

The Official had dropped His eyes to gaze sightlessly at the top of His desk. There was a moment of silence before He raises his eyes to answer her request. "Eberts, make sure she gets everything she needs," He orders resolutely. Both Eberts and Claire break out in wearied, yet surprised, smiles.

Monroe simply nods her agreement and closes her eyes.

In The Keeper's lab, Hobbes is resting in one of Claire's office chairs between two gurneys. His chair is turned slightly more to the right... towards Darien's bed. His head's drooped until his chin is resting on his chest. He's deeply asleep.

MacKenna and Darien are hooked up to all of the life support equipment normally seen on coma patients: oxygen; IV's; heart and blood pressure monitors; and electrodes carefully positioned around their heads, with wires leading into various monitors. Pictures of their respective brain activity, or lack thereof, are currently showing on the small TV screens above their heads.

**End of Part One**

o


	7. Chapter Seven

In lieu of Darien's opening words are Amanda's:

"A tortured soul named Henry Fink once said: _'You made me what I am to-day, I hope you're satisfied... And though you're not true, May God bless you, That's the curse of an aching heart.'_ hm... I wonder if he came up with that in therapy."

Sunday, 2:25pm

  
Darien snaps awake from his coma. Hobbes, who's been keeping vigil since they all returned from the warehouse, starts from his chair and is by his partner's side before his eyes have even focused. "Whuh... what?" Darien coughs as he tries to remember where he is.

Hobbes hovers over his friend, the relief radiating from his weary face. "Take it easy, partner. You've been out for a couple'a days."

Eyes full of confusion finally focus on him. "What happened?"

"We're in the lab," Hobbes replies. "We brought you and Amy here from the warehouse the other day. You gave us a helluva scare, my friend," he lightly chastises.

Darien frowns, not immediately recognizing the woman's name, and turns his head at the flutter of fabric to his right. Having just finished checking MacKenna's stats, Claire emerges from behind one of those huge tri-fold privacy screens that she had erected to split the room in half. The sudden relief she feels at seeing Darien awake overshadows the look of apprehensive concern on her face. She steps over to his side and begins to check his vital signs, and searches his face for any signs of Quicksilver madness as she asks, "How are you feeling?"

He blinks as he considers her question before replying. "Like some psycho mashed my brain through a sieve." Abruptly, he tenses and glances down at his body. "And why am I in restraints? ...A_gain_?"

Claire and Hobbes exchange meaningful looks before he responds. "What do you remember?"

Darien's eyes unfocus as he searches his memory. His brows rise as the fog slowly lifts from his mind, then plunge as first frustration and then fury swells. He grits out one word: "Ar_naud_."

Claire glances at the monitor as his blood pressure sharply rises with his surging pulse and emotions. "What else?"

He frowns at her. "The bastard was going to carve me up like a Thanksgiving turkey, Claire. What, there's more?"

Hobbes nods dourly. "Oh, yeah. Lots."

"Like..."

Hobbes shoots the doctor an inquiring look, asking with his eyes if she thought it was okay to continue. She shrugs, not seeing any reason to wait, so he explains. "You remember meeting a girl? At Alianora's old place?" As he's talking, he begins to undo the straps restraining his friend's arms above the bandages around his wrists.

Darien scowls, and he continues. "Arnaud was with her. He knocked you out and took you to Stark. Any of this ringing a bell?"

"No." The battered ex-burglar jiggles his head in an attempt to clear the loud humming from his ears. He stops immediately as he realizes that it's only making his head throb even more in agony. Claire notices his pain and lightly places her fingers on his forehead. She gently pushes his head back and shines a penlight up his nostrils. Seeing no fresh blood, she carefully turns his head from side to side as she checks his ears for any telltale signs of hemorrhaging.

He grabs her hands, irritated with the manhandling. "Claire, what the hell're you doing?"

She stills, and looks him straight in the eyes. "What's the last thing you remember happening?"

"Like I said, Arnaud was going to slice and dice me for the gland." Once again his eyes unfocus as a memory dances at the fringes of his mind. "Waitaminute. Hobbes, I didn't try to, _choke_ you, did I?" His eyes refocus on his partner's face, suddenly unnerved with the violent memory.

Hobbes flexes his bruised neck self-consciously. "Well, yeah, but you were all red-eye at the time."

"Son-of-a-_bitch_..."

He waves off the apology. "Don't worry about it, partner. I'm okay. Thing is, you remember what happened next?"

"Yeah?" Darien draws out the word a little as his mind continues to clear. "Some jackass stuck a needle in my neck. Then..." his voice fades off as he vainly tries to unravel the rest of his memories. "I dunno, the rest is kinda fuzzy..." he rubs at the back of his neck in an effort to ease the tension in his muscles.

"That was Amy," Hobbes interjects. "She got you with a sedative. When you turned around, she grabbed your head, and the both a ya spazzed like you licked a light socket. Monroe called Claire, and we got you two back here asap. That was two days ago."

"Oookay... so where's this Amy chick now?" Darien muses.

Claire motions towards the screen, and he notices the quiet sound of another heart monitor for the first time. He carefully tilts his head to the side as she pulls part of the screen aside so that he can see MacKenna's head. Her auburn hair is unbound, and the waves softly frame her pallid face. The fading bruise on her cheekbone is livid against her skin, and she still has electrodes attached all over her head. The wires from them lead into a machine monitoring her brain waves; it shows a bare minimum of activity.

Claire replaces the screen with a bleak expression on her face.

"She's not doing too well, is she?" Darien quietly asks.

Hobbes shakes his head as the doctor responds. "It's touch and go since she's still having seizures. I doubt she'll last the week if I don't get the information on what precisely was done to her in Virginia."

"What do you mean?"

She sighs in fatigue as Hobbes answers. "She's an experimental. Kinda like you."

"I think... I remember, _some_thing about that," Darien rubs at his eyes with his palms, feeling suddenly drained.

She notices the change in his demeanor, and lightly shoves Hobbes away from the bed. "Bobby, would you please tell the others that he's awake? Darien, you really need to rest. You're going to be weak for a while yet, and I'm keeping you here for observation." She elaborates when she notices her patient's unsettled expression. "I still haven't figured out what exactly happened when Amanda touched you; as well as what effect, if any, this has had on the gland."

Hobbes quietly leaves the lab as Darien asks, "What about that number it was doing on my... y'know... hormones?"

"It appears like that's been resolved, but that's another reason I want you to stay put for now," she sinks down into the chair that Hobbes had recently vacated.

"Anything else I should know about?" he yawns.

She shakes her head as she echoes the yawn. "No. Right now I want you to get some rest. We'll have plenty of time to talk later."

Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, he relaxes back into the soft pillow under him and immediately drops into a deep slumber. Telling herself that she'll only rest for a minute, the doctor soon follows.

Meanwhile, Hobbes has entered The Official's office long enough to tell those gathered there that Darien's finally roused. The Official asks when He can come down and see His "star agent", to which Hobbes simply replies "Later," before ducking back out of the office and returning to the lab.

Monday, approximately 7:25am

Darien awakes to Claire's soft touch on his shoulder. His eyelids crack open to observe her carefully removing the electrode patches from his head.

She notices his stirring. "Try to keep still, or this might pull out a few hairs," she quietly warns.

His brows furrow as the sleep-fog clears from his mind. "Man, did I have some freaky dreams last night..." he begins, but then he realizes that they were more than just dreams. He abruptly sits up, forgetting her warning. "_Ouch!_"

She backs up a step, holding a patch with a small clump of hairs clinging to it. "I _told_ you to lie still," she scolds.

He distractedly rubs at the sore spot near the back of his head as he gazes at the privacy screen in the middle of the room. "How is she?" he asks, indicating MacKenna with a small upwards jerk of his chin.

The doctor's face firms. "No better." She turns and places the last electrode down on a rolling tray at the head of his cot, and then begins to remove the other monitoring paraphernalia from his arms and chest.

The lab door opens, and Hobbes and The Official enter. Darien cautiously swings his legs over the edge of the bed as they approach. The Official nods at Claire, who is wheeling Darien's monitors and tray out of the way to the back wall. She returns the gesture as she hands Darien a shirt, and then disappears behind the screen to check on MacKenna.

"How you doing, partner?" Hobbes asks heartily, encouraged with the sight of his friend sitting up.

He shrugs ambiguously as he gingerly pulls the shirt on. "I've felt better."

"It's good to see you up, Fawkes," The Official greets him.

Claire mutters to herself as she finishes with MacKenna.

"What was that?" He queries.

She emerges from the privacy screen with a pensive look on her face. "I still can't figure out why she and Darien had had such extreme reactions to each other," she muses.

Darien perks up at the memory her comment rouses in his mind. "You mean from when she grabbed my head?"

Claire tilts her head to the side in query. "Your memories; are they coming back?"

"Well, kinda. I know that after Arnaud knocked me out, they tied me up and dumped me on her couch. She freaked out 'cause she thought I was working for this place called the Shop..."

The Official's face clouds at the mention of The Shop.

"... and then he grabbed her bad arm. There was this, like," he hesitates, at a loss for a better word. "_flash_, when he touched her. They didn't seem to notice it that time; but then she grabbed his head and yelled at him, and one helluva spark shot between her hands and his head." He frowns, deep in thought. "I thought I was seeing stuff since he'd kicked me in the head earlier. Think that might have something to do with it?"

Claire runs her fingers through her hair as she thinks furiously. "I'm sure it does, but without more information there's nothing I can do." She sighs in extreme frustration. "If I don't find out more about her medical background, she could very well die in the next day or so."

Hobbes joins the conversation with a preoccupied look on his face. "She told Monroe and I that Stark thought that sparky-stuff had something to do with her and Arnie's... oh, what did she call it? 'Modifications'? That his gland and that thing she does weren't really... compatible."

Claire's scowl lightens a little. "That makes sense, but it's nowhere near enough for me to safely isolate the catalyzing influences." She fixes The Official with a level stare. "What I _need_ are the files on that experiment."

He turns His eyes away, uneasy with what she was suggesting. He hesitates, but Hobbes jumps in before He can speak. "What about Arnaud?"

"What about him?" Darien asks irritably. His head is starting to pound again.

"When he kidnapped Amy from the lab, he'd also stolen all the research files. With any luck, he could still have 'em."

"Unless he'd already given them to Stark," Darien retorts.

"What are you suggesting, Hobbes?" The Official queries.

Hobbes turns to Him and replies with enthusiasm. "That I find our mercenary Doctor, and ... 'compel' him to give up the files." He cracks his knuckles, pleased with the idea of beating the crap out of Arnaud.

"Don't even _think_ of going without me," Darien interjects firmly.

Claire glares at him, her expression changing from thoughtfulness to consternation. "There is no way you're leaving here for at least another day or so, Darien. You're in no condition to be running around chasing Arnaud of all people."

"I agree," The Official pipes in. "Fawkes, you're to stay here and rest." Darien opens his mouth to protest, but is cut off. "And that's an order! Hobbes," He turns to the other agent. "you find out where de Fehrn is hiding, but don't take him on alone! I want you to wait until Fawkes is well enough to back you up. Capiche?"

Hobbes nods, pleased that he can finally do something other than wait. "Got it Boss. Fawkesy, you worry about getting back on your feet. And once I've found Arnaud, we'll both kick his sorry ass all the way back to France."

"Switzerland, Hobbes. It's Switzerland," Darien acerbically corrects his partner. At the other mans' puzzled glance, he expands. "He's Swiss-_French_. Oh, forget it! Just find the bastard and get back here." He begins massaging his temples, suddenly aware of his pulse pounding in his head. He's beginning to feel a bit faint.

The Official notices that Darien's gotten paler, and gets Claire's attention with a nod of His head. She looks up from the chart she'd started on MacKenna and notes her patient's wan complexion. She strides over and takes his wrist in her hand to check his pulse. He starts to jerk his arm away, but then realizes that any extra movement just makes his head pound harder. He starts rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, and Hobbes pats him twice on the knee.

"Take it easy, partner. I won't do anything without you, okay? I'll check in later." And with that, he leaves the room.

The Official's moved to the foot of MacKenna's bed, and darkly regards her as Claire finishes checking Darien's vitals. She helps him swing his legs back on to the bed and covers him with a warm blanket. He allows his head to settle into the pillow, but his eyes remain open. He watches as she silently joins The Official at the other bed, and ponders the ramifications of MacKenna's possible survival. His eyes prove too heavy to keep open though, and within moments he falls into a light doze.

"What's going to happen to her?" Claire asks quietly.

He shakes His head. "Until Barnes finds her, or gives up looking, she won't be safe staying in one place for long."

"Isn't there anything we can do?"

He studies the comatose woman darkly for a few moments. "You know our financial situation," He replies in a bleak tone.

"But we can't just put her out on the street in the condition she's in," she reasons.

"No. But the sooner she's away from here, the safer we'll all be."

"How so?"

"Barnes has been breathing down my neck since Monroe and Hobbes got back from Virginia," He explains. "He's already suspicious of us. I don't want him thinking that we're hiding her."

"But, we are," she argues.

"He doesn't need to know that. The longer she's here, the more dangerous it becomes... for everyone. This man will stop at nothing to get her back."

"Well then, I hope Bobby finds those files quickly," she murmurs.

Monday, 8:00am

Monroe promptly hobbles into The Official's office on her crutches. He's seated at His desk, speaking with (who else?) Director Barnes on the phone. Eberts is busy dusting and organizing the office. The rotating fan is on low, barely moving the sodden air in the room.

"... They're still out in the field. No, they still haven't found anything more. I'm expecting to hear from Agent Hobbes any minute now." He notices Monroe entering the office and instructs with His hand for her to be silent. "No, Agent Monroe is still recuperating. I'll make sure she sends her report as soon as she's well enough. ... Yes, yes. Very well." He hangs up the phone as He dabs at a line of sweat on His upper brow. "What are you doing here, Monroe?" He barks at her as she limps over to one of the chairs in front of His desk. "You're under orders to stay home and rest."

She carefully lowers herself into the seat. Eberts is immediately by her side, taking the crutches after arranging a folding footstool and helping her to elevate the injured leg. She flashes a warmly grateful smile at him, and he blushes as he hastily returns to his cleaning.

"Well?" The Official grunts. He seems to be in a more cantankerous mood than usual this morning.

"Well what?" she returns crisply. "I was going stir-crazy at home. There must be _some_thing I can do around here."

She doesn't notice that the office door's opened to allow Hobbes' entry. He silently strides to the chair askance from her and replies, "Actually, you could help me find Arnaud."

She starts in surprise, and then flinches as the motion pulls at the stitches in her leg. "Dammit, Hobbes, a little warning!"

"Sorry," he apologizes, not looking the slightest bit contrite. "How's the leg?"

"What do you think?" she snaps as she gently massages the tight muscles above her knee. ";Now what'd you say about de Fehrn?"

"Claire needs the research files on Amy asap, and I could use some help in finding his fox-hole," he replies with a gleam in his eye.

"How're they doing?"

"Fawkes's awake, but MacKenna's still in a coma," The Official replies in a dour tone.

"Is he still...?" she inquires pointedly.

Hobbes shakes his head. "He's back to normal, more or less."

"Whatever _that_ is," she mutters. Eberts purses his lips in amusement at her gibe as he finishes wiping off the last file cabinet in the room. He places his cleaning supplies in a tidy pile on top as The Official motions for him to come over. He steps over to His side and nods his readiness.

"Eberts, I want you to help Agent Monroe for the rest of the day. Starting now."

"That's not necessary..." she demurs, but is cut off by the sharp gesture of His hand.

"No. It's either this or being sent home." He fixes her with a gimlet glare. "Well?"

She dips her head in acquiescence before raising her eyes (filled with the irritation she can't express) to Hobbes. "What do you need?"

"We've gotta figure out where Arnaud's hiding," he answers. "Think any of your contacts could help out with that?"

"Maybe," she draws out the word a little as she thinks. "I'll have to make a few calls. Eberts?" She glances up at him in a tacit appeal for his assistance. He looks to The Official, who impatiently waves for him to continue on. He helps her to stand, folds up the footstool and hands her the crutches. As she hops towards the door, he deferentially opens and holds it for her. He looks back over his shoulder, checking if Hobbes was leaving the room with them. But The Official shakes His head, so he closes the door quietly behind himself and trails Monroe to the elevator.

"You want somethin' else, Chief?" Hobbes inquires from his chair.

"Barnes is demanding a field report from either you or Fawkes, as of yesterday. I told him about Monroe getting shot, but he doesn't yet know the three of you've had contact with MacKenna. Before you do anything else, I want you to report in to him..."

"Give a bogus sit-rep?" Hobbes winks knowingly. At The Official's nod, he continues. "Tell him we're getting close, but that we haven't secured either her or de Fehrn yet. Right?"

"Right. He can't in any way know that we have her here."

"No problem, Chief," Hobbes replies with confidence as he rises and strides towards the office door. He swivels around with his hand on the knob. "Hey, Amy said something a few days ago, about hearing stuff some of those Shop guys said about us and The Agency. Whatta ya think they were talking about?"

The Official's face closes up like a wall's slammed down over His thoughts. "Believe me, Bobby, you don't want to know."

He frowns thoughtfully, not quite liking the tone of the Boss's voice. He looks as if he wants to say something more, but decides against it and quietly leaves the office.

The Official sighs heavily and rubs His aching eyes before turning back to His paperwork.

Monday, around 5:00pm

Later that day, Monroe calls Hobbes up to her office. He knocks politely on her door as he peeks around the edge of it. He notices that Eberts has set her up comfortably on the couch, with a few pillows neatly arranged to raise and support her injured leg. There's a hardwood TV tray arranged beside her; with her phone, a note pad, pen, and Rolodex stacked neatly on top of it. She has a triumphant smile on her face, which is modestly echoed in the assistant's expression.

"Wha'? What is it?" he inquires in earnest as he shuts the door behind him.

"We found de Fehrn."

His eyes widen in excitement. "How did...? Who...?" he sputters before his face firms out. "Where?" he grins with a savage glint in his eye.

"Remember the man assisting him at the warehouse?" she hints. He nods, and she continues. "I planted a tracer on him when he was helping me to the operating theatre. Apparently he never discovered it, so Eberts was able to trace his whereabouts. I called in a couple of guys I know to track his location; they just called a few minutes ago."

"And..." he prompts impatiently.

"And they found him with de Fehrn and Stark at what looks like Stark's house," she finishes, unperturbed with the interruption.

He breaks out in an ecstatic grin. "Your boys say how the detestable duo's doing?"

She chuckles at his facile remark, and Eberts smiles faintly from his spot at the bar. "Stark's pretty pissed at you for shooting him," she pouts in mock-sympathy.

"Tit for tat as far as I'm concerned," he returns, pleased with the off-handed compliment. "Got an address?"

She nods and glances expectantly at Eberts as he steps to her side and hands her a piece of paper. "Thank you, Eberts." He nods and returns to his post. She holds it up to Hobbes, who accepts it with a grateful nod.

"Thanks for the help, Monroe. ...Eberts." He heads for the door, eager to go kick some ass. "Take it easy on the leg."

As he closes the door she replies dourly, "As if I had a choice," with a mildly baleful glance at the assistant.

A few minutes later the lab door slides open, and Hobbes enters with a lively step. Claire is in her comfy chair by her computer, writing notes in her new case folder on MacKenna. Darien's sitting up in his bed, considering whether or not he should try out his legs yet. He looks a million times better than he did just the day before.

The two look up at Hobbes expectantly, and he proudly displays the paper Monroe and Eberts gave him a few minutes before. "Get out of bed Fawkesy, we've got us some ass-kickin' to do!"

Darien grins, glad for the excuse to get out of the lab. He's really craving fresh air and sunshine on his face, what with all the little sounds of the life support equipment's beeping, it just felt more and more like living in a morgue to him. He slides off the edge of the bed, and then suddenly clutches at it to steady himself. His knees wobble like they're made of silly putty.

Claire hastens from her chair to help him, but Hobbes beats her to the bed and firmly catches his friends' arm. "Whoa, take it easy partner! We don't have to leave right this second! We got plenty of time to get to Stark's place. I clipped him good in the shoulder, so he won't be up for too much anytime soon. Not to mention that lovely hole you stuck in Arnaud's gut."

Darien locks his knees and shrugs off his partner's solicitous hand. He seems pretty irritated and anxious to leave the lab. "But I need to get out of here... _now_, Hobbes. If I stay in this room one more second, I think my head's gonna explode!"

Claire searches his face with great concern for any signs of Quicksilver madness. "Darien..."

He lurches away from her, smacking at her extended hand in irritation. "I'm _fine_, Claire. Just sick of being stuck in here." He glares down at his legs, which are threatening to give out on him again. Steeling himself, he takes a tentative step away from the bed. Amazingly enough, he doesn't fall on his face, but he keeps a hand out in case he needs to grab on to something quickly.

Her face betrays the severity of her anxiety. "You can't go out like this; it's too dangerous, and..."

"Look, do you need that information or not?" he snaps.

Her lips press into a thin line. "Yes I do, but not at the expense of your and Bobbys' safety. If you're going to be of any help to him, you must allow yourself some more time to recover."

"Claire..."

"No, not another word! Don't make me put you in restraints, Darien." Her eyes glitter with emotion.

Hobbes has taken a step back from the two, taken aback at the intensity of their emotions. "Whoa, whoaaa. Let's just take a moment and calm down here, okay? Look, buddy," he turns to Darien. "Monroe's contact said that Stark and the others weren't going anywhere for a while. They're also keeping an eye on things until you and I get there, so we have some time to get your land-legs back." He gesticulates with his open palms facing the floor in a downward calming motion as he glances back and forth between the doctor and the former thief. "So let's go for a walk down the hall, partner; see how you're feeling in a bit. Okay?"

Claire nods: "Fine." while Darien shrugs: "Whatever."

"Great, now let's get you something for the feet." Hobbes searches for, and then pulls out a pair of slippers from under Darien's cot. He hands them to his friend, and stands within arm's reach as they're pulled on.

While Hobbes is looking for the slippers, Claire steps over to a closet and pulls out a combination walking stick/cane. She returns to Darien's side and holds it out in silent instruction for him to employ it.

He finishes sliding on his left slipper, glances up as he senses her approaching from the corner of his eye, and soberly regards the proffered item.

After a brief pause, he accepts it and cautiously turns to leave. Hobbes shadows him to the door, and as it slides open, the shorter man glances at Claire over his shoulder and notices that she's turned her back. She's returned to MacKenna's chart, and is scrawling some final notes in it. Her back is hunched, betraying her concern and irritation at Darien's being such a pain in her ass.


	8. Chapter Eight

Monday, around 7:30pm (sunset)

The van pulls up to the curb in an average upscale residential neighborhood.

"Which one is it?"Darien asks from the passenger seat.

Hobbes searches the street for Monroe's contacts. "Third one down on the left," he replies absently. Finally, he places one man in a landscaper's uniform trimming the bushes in front of the house about two dozen feet from the right side of the van. The man pauses in his work to glance at the van in vague curiosity before returning to his task.

Darien notices his interest in the landscaping employee. "What? What is it?"

He nods once, and then casually turns his gaze to the other side of the street. He barely moves his lips as he replies, "He's one of Monroe's guys."

"What, the gardener?"

"Know any company that has its people out this late in the day?"

Darien concedes the point with a slight shrug. "So where are the others?"

He jerks his head to his left, indicating with his chin another man coming from the rear of the house two doors away from the one he initially pointed out. "There." He pauses as he searches the street, then turns and appraises his partner's condition. "How you feelin'? Think you're up for this?"

Darien stifles his irritation. "Abso_lute_ly. May we go? Now?"

He opens his door. "Okay partner, time to dance." He slides off of the seat, closes his door and casually walks around the back of the van to the sidewalk.

By the time Hobbes reaches his side, Darien's opened his door and tentatively stepped down onto the sidewalk. The walking stick/cane is nowhere in evidence, and he holds onto the door with one hand as he tests the strength in his legs. _'Wow, didn't think they'd be this steady,'_ he muses, thrilled that his strength was returning so quickly. _'And Claire said I'd need that thing for another day or so.'_ He smiles to himself as Hobbes steps up to him. "So, which one're we talking to first?"

Hobbes nods towards the landscape gardener. "Let's check out the back." He starts towards the side walkway, and Darien gingerly follows. The landscaper continues cutting the bushes for a few more moments before collecting his equipment and walking around the other side of the house.

He dubiously eyes up the two agents as Darien comments in an aside, "Does anyone actually live here? 'Cause it'd really suck if someone on the neighborhood watch called the cops on us now..."

"It's covered," Hobbes absently reassures him. He nods to the landscaper, and as the man approaches, he asks, "Adams?"

The man nods, replying, "Agency?"

"Yah. What've you got?" Hobbes murmurs. Darien leans closer so he can hear what's being discussed.

The man begins to answer, then shoots a questioning glance at the taller agent. "You okay? You look like hell."

"Thanks," Darien replies caustically. "It must be all the sun I've been getting."

"Fawkes..." Hobbes admonishes his partner, and then looks back at Monroe's contact man. "They all there?"

The man nods. "At least Stark is. And three bodyguards. One looks like a medic."

"The assistant," Hobbes verifies. "Any sign of de Fehrn?"

Adams frowns. "Can't be sure, but yeah, I think so."

"You _think_ so?" Darien queries pointedly.

Adams quits chewing on the inside of his cheek, then replies: "Occasionally there's movement in one of the windows, but no one's there. And about fifteen minutes ago, Morris saw a cigarette floating around on the back porch."

Darien and Hobbes exchange knowing looks. "That's him," Hobbes comments.

"So, how does Stark look?" Darien asks with a tiny crooked smile.

"Pretty bad, but the wound's not life-threatening."

The lanky man snaps his fingers in malicious disappointment, and Hobbes shoots him a quelling glance before turning once again to Adams. "What's Morris' twenty?"

Adams gestures with his hand towards the front of the house. "He's the pool guy across the street."

Hobbes nods and starts towards the front of the house, and Darien mutters to himself as he trails the two men, "Doesn't anyone _normal_ live in these neighborhoods?"

Adams precedes the other two men across the immaculate front lawn to his landscaping work van. The side is emblazoned with the company logo **_'Lush Landscapers'_** and a cartoon caricature of a vivacious green thumb wearing a hat and proudly displaying various gardening tools.

He opens the sliding door, places his tool belt in between the front two seats, and gestures for the other two men to follow him as he steps into the back. Once the other two are seated inside, he shuts the door, turns and seats himself in front of a small console. He puts on a pair of headphones, flips a few switches and speaks quietly into a microphone attached to the headgear. "Morris."

_"Yah."_

"They're here. What's your sit-rep?"

Darien nudges his partner in the ribs as he murmurs to him, "What is it with this stuff? You guys born experts in spy-speak or is there a class?"

"Shhhh..." Hobbes frowns and makes a cutting gesture with his hand.

_"... not much going on in the house for a while now. Wait a minute... one of them's on the phone..."_ Morris trails off as he furtively raises his binoculars to try and get a better glimpse of the activity inside the house.

The three men in the van wait tensely as the seconds tick away...

Adams is beginning to look worried. "Morris. ...Morris, you there?"

No answer. But just as Adams is opening his mouth to call to his colleague again, Morris' voice whispers through the speaker. _"Think I've been made. Breaking contact..."_ the speaker crackles as he tears off his headgear, grabs his equipment and makes himself scarce.

"What? What happened?" Darien asks in alarm.

Adams removes his headgear and carefully places it down on the console in front of him. "He's removing himself from the area. He'll call me once he's clear."

"Why doesn't he just come in here?"

Hobbes pats his partner on the shoulder. "If he was made, then coming to us would blow our position too. I know this guy; he's top-notch CIA. He'd do anything to keep us from being compromised."

An ironic grin spreads across Darien's face. "Well, he can't be another member of the Bobby Hobbes Anti-Fan Club then."

Hobbes wisely ignores the teasing as he turns his head to look at Adams. "How much did Monroe tell you about this assignment?"

"Enough for me to back you up if you need it," the other man replies firmly as he eyes up Darien's pallid face and stooped posture. "And by the look of things, you're going to need it."

Darien blinks as he decides whether or not he should be taking offense with the comment.

"Right," Hobbes affirms as he loosens his gun in his holster. "Right now, I'll need you to stay here and monitor our situation. If things get hairy, call Monroe for backup if you can before you come in."

"Got it." Adams turns to pick up two tiny microphones/wires. He hands one to Hobbes, who carefully pins it to the inside of his jacket as Darien pipes up with a question.

"Wait a minute. Is there some sort of a plan, or are we just charging in there? Because that would be, you know, suicide..."

Hobbes shakes his head in bemusement, and takes the other wire. "No, we're not 'just charging in there'; and yes, you should know by now that there's _al_ways a plan." He pauses as he also assesses Darien's condition. "Still up for this, partner?" He finally pins the wire on the back of the lapel on his friend's jacket.

Darien sighs, trying to mask his exhaustion from himself as much as from the others. "If we're doing this today, then yes."

Knowing that his friend was struggling and failing miserably at cloaking how poorly he's feeling, Bobby still takes Darien's word. "Okay. This's what we do: I'm going to draw their attention while you look for the files."

"That's _it_?" Darien blinks. "And how are you going to keep their attention on you long enough?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but Darien unintentionally cuts him off. "And what about Arnaud? He might still have the files on him."

"True," Hobbes surrenders the point. "That's why you get this." He pulls out and hands a hypo over with a fresh cartridge of sedative in it. "Anyone _sees_ you," he glares at Darien as his partner opens his mouth to correct him, "you knock 'em out with this. It should put a guy down for a coupla hours or so."

"And what if I'm unable to do that?"

He pulls out his spare gun. "Then use this." He hands it over as Darien's face hardens in recollection of the few disastrous times he's handled a loaded gun. "Anything else?"

"No," Darien shakes his head. "Same schtick? You take front and I take back?"

"Nah, let's switch it. They're probably expecting it the other way. Ready partner? Then let's do this." They lightly slap five before opening the side door and exiting the van.

Hobbes sticks his head in as Darien Quicksilvers near the rear. "Mikes on?"

Adams nods as he throws a switch, and acoustic static is replaced by the echo of Hobbes' voice. They nod, and Hobbes carefully pulls the van door shut as Adams slides on his headphones.

"Still there, partner?" he asks to the air on his left.

"Yeah. Ready when you are," Darien's voice murmurs from a few feet away.

"'Kay. Wait for my signal, then move on in."

"And what would the signal be?"

"You'll know when you hear it," he replies with a malicious grin as he peeks around the rear corner of the van at Stark's house.

"Oooh-kaaaay," Darien mumbles to himself as his friend quickly scoots across the street to the cover of some shrubs by a mailbox. Still invisible, he saunters down the opposite side of the street from Stark's house. As he comes even with it, he checks for oncoming cars before crossing the road to the front lawn.

He walks up to the front door and cautiously checks to see if any of Stark's men are inside wearing thermal-vision sunglasses. He waits for a few moments, and then jumps as the sounds of gunfire shatter the tranquil afternoon air. Suddenly, the front door is wrenched open. Two men burst out of the house in pursuit of Hobbes, who's come around from the back of the house in a dead run. He spies the men, and darts back and forth on the street in order to make himself harder to hit. One of the goons skids to a halt and takes aim at the middle of Hobbes' back as the other continues the chase.

Before he can fire though, there's the sound of a hypo hissing as it injects some of the sedative into his neck. The man swats at the mosquito ('?'), then blacks out on the sidewalk with a puzzled look on his face.

"_That_, was the signal." Darien looks up from the man to see Hobbes wrest open his van door and leap inside.

The van roars to life, and he thrusts it into gear as he floors the gas pedal. The tires scream as the other Chrysalis agent (the medic) halts in the middle of the street to take aim...

But he has to dive out of the way as the van bears down on him.

Meanwhile, a still Quicksilvered Darien is cautiously entering the house. He hears enraged voices coming from the living room/kitchen area near the back porch to his left. He peeks around the corner of the living room from the hall, and spies an apoplectic Stark bellowing at de Fehrn and Brute (the Big Guy).

_'Nice outfit,'_ Darien thinks acidly to himself as he notices that de Fehrn's visible: wearing rumpled slacks, a polo shirt and long overcoat with loafers.

"How the _hell_ did he find us!" Stark shouts at Brute.

"More to the point... where's Fawkes?" de Fehrn interjects calmly.

Stark stills as he considers the doctor's comment, and Brute reaches into his coat pocket for his sunglasses. A distressed look washes over his face as he realizes that he doesn't have them.

de Fehrn notices his reaction, and sighs impatiently as he shakes his head. "Don't worry, I can see him without those," he reassures Stark. "It'll be easier if I remove..." he reaches up to his eyes to take out his contact lenses, but is interrupted.

"That's not necessary," Stark waves a hand. "The latest information has Fawkes and MacKenna both in comas. They're effectively out of the game... for now."

"And what _are_ we going to do with her?" de Fehrn queries as he readjusts the lens in his left eye.

Stark motions for Brute to leave the room, and the man walks to the sliding door. He opens it as the one conscious agent (the medic) enters the room from the front of the house. He's dragging the other man, and hauls him onto another couch on the far side of the living room.

"Keep an eye out," Stark orders the two men. "Agent Hobbes was likely a distraction for others to enter the house." The two nod, and Brute walks out onto the back porch as the medic begins searching the interior for intruders.

Darien moves closer as Stark lowers his voice. The man looks extremely pale, and has an IV inserted into his arm with a bag hung above his head. He's comfortably situated on an elegant Victorian couch with his shirt removed, revealing a sleeveless white undershirt. The top of his arm (where the ball meets the socket in his shoulder) is generously wrapped, with the affected arm securely resting in a sling.

Once the two agents are out of earshot, he turns and continues his conversation with de Fehrn. "Borden and his misfits have her stowed somewhere in their building, so we have a couple of options. We can either go in and get her,"

de Fehrn sighs melodramatically. "Not a_gain_," he mutters dismally.

"... _or_," Stark continues with a pointed glare at the interruption, "We can wait and see if The Keeper is able to bring her around; and MacKenna will return to us as soon as she's able."

"Unless they've somehow managed to convince her that it's in her best interest to stay with them," de Fehrn counters.

He shakes his head. "Not while Barnes and his men think she's alive. They'll do anything to get her back, and Borden knows that. To preserve his precious Agency, he'll make sure MacKenna's away from there as expediently as possible."

"Can we even trust her to come back?"

"Where else can she go?" comes the smug reply. "We have the only complete set of records on her experiment, and she won't last more than a few days out on her own." He pats a small zippered date book sitting on his lap. "She's already admitted as much to us, and we've offered her the best chance for her freedom so far. She has no choice but to remain under our... 'protection'."

_'Not if I can help it,'_ Darien ponders darkly to himself. He eyes up the date book, and figures that it's large enough to hold a few floppies or mini CDs with the research information on them. _'Now, how to get it?'_

His answer comes in the form of Hobbes' van suddenly squealing to a halt in front of the house, just as Adams assaults Brute on the back porch. The sliding glass door shatters as Brute is flung through it. The medic hurtles down the stairs towards Adams, who squeezes off a few shots at the man before diving out the broken door and bolting for the line of bushes separating Stark's yard from the next house's. The Chrysalis agent peeks around the corner of the kitchen doorway, and seeing that the way is clear, then tears off after Adams with his gun drawn.

Meanwhile, de Fehrn has helped Stark off of the floor by the couch, and is bending over to retrieve the planner when Darien jams the hypo into his neck.

"Not so fast, you bastard," he murmurs as he injects a double dose of the sedative into de Fehrn's bloodstream. The mercenary wheels around swinging a fist, and clips him across the jaw. He falters back a step before crashing the butt of the hypo down on de Fehrn's face. There's a wet snap as the man's nose is shattered, then a thud as he collapses to the floor, unconscious.

Darien seizes and Quicksilvers the planner, and then whirls around to spot Stark aiming a pistol at his head. He's wearing thermal sunglasses.

"_Shi...!_" Darien grunts as he dives for cover. Stark squeezes the trigger, and a bullet whizzes by a hair from his invisible cheek. He clumsily rolls to his feet and lurches at the other man. With one hand, he grabs Stark's injured arm and drives the hypo into the skin directly under his collarbone beside the bandage. He squeezes the trigger, and before Stark can finish hissing the epithet on his lips, the man collapses to the floor, out cold.

Darien staggers and leans on the nearest secure object, (which happens to be the doorway leading from the living room into the front hall) as he tries to get his breath back. His lungs heave for oxygen, and he notices little sparks dancing in his field of vision.

The moment passes, and he takes a tentative step away from the doorsill. The Quicksilver falls away from him, revealing a blanched face and body shivering in shock. He stumbles towards where he dropped the planner, scoops it up and un-zippers it a little to scan the contents. Inside are three small disks in protective plastic cases labeled '**A.E. Daniels, file DOD032493**'. In an almost imperceptible scrawl on the lower right-hand corners of the disks are the letters '**re: swrb**'.

He sighs in relief, zippers the planner shut (without actually reading the writing on the disks), and carefully tucks it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He grabs the arm of a chair to pull himself up, and notices that his legs have gone 'on strike'. With the surge of adrenaline wearing off, he realizes that he should have taken Claire's advice more to heart than he's done.

His head jerks up at the sound of the front door crashing open. He drops the hypo and shakily draws Hobbes' gun...

As Hobbes bursts into the room.

He sweeps the room with his eyes and firearm, and drops the barrel to the floor as he spies Darien crouched near de Fehrn's limp form.

"Whoa, partner!" he exclaims as he stares down the barrel of his spare gun into his partner's desperate and almost senseless eyes. "Backup's arrived!"

Darien blinks and shakes his head as he drops the gun. "Sorry. Kinda jumpy," he mutters as he once again attempts to marshal enough energy to stand.

Hobbes notices his friend's dilemma, and hastens to help him up. "Nice job, partner," he comments in approval. "Got the goods?"

Darien grasps the proffered arm and allows the shorter man to haul him up. "Yeah, in my coat. Let's get the hell outta here."

Hobbes nods. "Adams is waiting in the van."

He steadies Darien as he stumbles halfway to the door. "What happened to that medic guy? ..." the exhausted man frowns.

"Down and out in the back yard," Hobbes reassures him. "Let's get you back to The Keep, partner. You look like crap."

"Feel worse," he mumbles in exhaustion as they leave the eerily silent house.

Tuesday 9:30 am

The Official and Eberts enter Claire's lab. She's busy typing on her computer, with Hobbes sitting beside her avidly reading what was on the screen. Darien, whose color has improved once again, is still curled up asleep under a fuzzy blanket on the reclined demented dentist's chair.

His bed, as well as all of the monitoring equipment, had been moved to Lab Four with MacKenna the night before.

At the sound of the lab door sliding open, Claire turns her head and raises her index finger to her lips with a sidewise dip of her head towards the sleeping man. The Official and Eberts stride over to her and Hobbes, and He quietly asks, "So?"

Hobbes glances up briefly at them before turning back to the computer screen. "This's some pretty messed up stuff here, Boss," he comments absently as he continues poring over MacKenna's case files.

The Official leans over his shoulder to squint more closely at the screen. "Finding what you need, Doctor?"

She smiles, her relief evidently fighting with her scientific interest in the information. "Yes, thank goodness." She returns her gaze to the document as she strains to keep her voice lowered so as not to wake Darien. "What they were doing here is extraordinary! With Amanda and a few others they were actually able to neurologically, 'rewire' them..."

"For what purpose?" Eberts queries as he cranes his head to look at the computer. In doing so, he accidentally bumps The Official's elbow. He whips His head around to glare at His errant assistant, and the chagrined man blushes as he backs away a step.

Unaware of the interaction between them, Claire responds while continuing to scroll through the open document. "It's difficult to explain, but..." she trails off, thinking furiously on how to word what she was going to say next in a way that the others would understand.

But before she can continue, Hobbes pipes up. "You ever hear of something called Reiki?"

The other two men's faces go blank, and Claire continues. "It's a holistic approach to healing and improving the functioning of the body. It involves the practitioner attempting to cleanse energy pathways in the patient partly with the use of crystals at key focal points..."

"Crystals..." The Official grunts in derision, as she continues uninterrupted.

"... as well as with a form of meditation in order to focus his or her own energies into the hands, so that he or she can heal, in a fashion, the blocked pathways in the patient."

Hobbes grins conspiratorially. "Sounds like a lotta Eastern mysticism hoowah, don't it?"

"Hm," The Official agrees, still trying to read the document on the screen.

"Well, quite a few people swear by it," Claire interjects. "And it seems the scientists at The Shop found some merit in these claims, because they've been working on adapting this technique for use in subversive operations and interrogation proceedings."

"There were subjects other than Miss MacKenna?" Eberts pipes up.

She nods. "Many others. Unfortunately, most of them died from complications after the third phase of the experiment. The survivors have been trained to focus their energies into mainly their hands, which has enabled them to do some pretty remarkable things."

Hobbes breaks in with vigor. "Get this: it doesn't say who, but two of them were able to start fires. Not big ones, but if they were near something flammable, they could torch it. Pretty cool, huh?"

"How many are left?" The Official asks.

"As far as I can tell, all of them were in the complex when Arnaud blew it up," she replies softly. "There's reference of a few being moved a few years ago, but no mention of any specific locations, and a brief afternote stating that the subjects were, 'deactivated', soon after transition."

Hobbes snorts softly. "No loose ends, now."

"Do you have the necessary information to help her now?" He asks brusquely.

She nods again. "I needed some additional medical supplies, so I ordered them through a colleague of mine able to get them at a discount."

"Did you clear this through..." He snaps, but she cuts Him off.

"Through Eberts? Yes, and we _can_ afford it." The frost in her voice indicates that she's a bit testier than usual with His penny-pinchiness. "And now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to check on her."

She abruptly rises from her chair, and The Official and Eberts hastily backpedal in order to let her pass. She snatches MacKenna's chart from a stand beside the lab door as she stalks out of the room. Hobbes continues to read MacKenna's computer files, of which he never took his eyes from for the entire conversation. Darien's still sleeping on his chair, with a soft snore escaping from his nostrils every few seconds or so.


	9. Chapter Nine

Wednesday 8:30am

Everyone, with the exception of The Official and Eberts, gathers around Claire's computer in her lab. Darien and Hobbes enter the lab, and notice that Monroe is already sitting next to the doctor in an armchair brought down from her office. She's holding up a film of MacKenna's head to the light, and another is lying on top of a manila x-ray folder on the desk beside her. The look on her face is of mild interest, since the one film shows extra vascular pathways, and the other heightened neurological activity in certain areas of MacKenna's brain.

Darien sits down on Claire's left, with his arms resting in front of him on the back of a rolling office chair. Hobbes stands on Claire's right and squints at the x-ray in Monroe's hand.

"What's up?" Darien inquires of the doctor.

"I thought you'd like to hear how Amanda became involved in all this," she replies.

"How long've you been here, Monroe?" Hobbes asks her as Claire directs Darien to the beginning of the file.

"About an hour." She sips a viscous orange-colored liquid from a tall clear water glass as she lowers the film to the desk in front of her.

He screws up his face in distaste at the sight of her healthy morning drink. "_Yeeuch!_ That's, just nasty," he mutters, and averts his gaze towards the computer screen.

She raises her eyebrows and smiles impishly. She takes another sip from her glass as Claire begins speaking again.

"In February of 1993 she had a husband and two children; twins. They were returning to their home in Virginia from a family visit in Massachusetts, when they were involved in an accident with a tractor-trailer. Amanda was the only survivor."

Hobbes whistles almost silently through his front teeth. "Ouch. Bet _that_ was messy."

Darien's face hardens. "How old were the kids?"

"Five months," she replies softly to him before continuing. "She was critically injured, and was transferred to Johns Hopkins Medical Center's neurological unit a month later, listed as a Jane Doe. On March 24th, she was discharged into military care, but there's no mention of whom it was, or where she was taken. She must have been at The Shop ever since, for over eight years." She shakes her head in empathy at what the woman must have gone through.

"Eight _years_!" Darien exclaims in disbelief.

Monroe pipes in. "Makes sense. It would take a long time to come up with the kinds of modifications to get her, doing... what she, does..." She trails off, uncomfortable with the memory of MacKenna's burning hands grasping her head.

_"Kev..."_

Hobbes' head snaps around at the voice whispering through the intercom on the far wall. "What's that?"

Darien tilts his head to listen. Hearing nothing, he asks, "What's what?"

"Thought I heard something."

_"Kev? ..."_

"There it is again."

Claire and Monroe glance up at the guys. "What's the matter?" Claire asks.

"I think she's awake," Hobbes replies as he steps towards the intercom. "You got this thing set up in the other lab, don't you?"

"Yes," the doctor draws out the affirmative as she rises from her chair. "But she shouldn't be rousing yet. Tomorrow at the earliest..." She trails off as MacKenna's voice rises sharply from the other room.

_"Kevin, where are you? KEV!"_ She coughs harshly, and then the sounds of struggling are heard. Something crashes.

Hobbes and Claire dash through the lab door. Darien follows cautiously, unwilling to get too close to the woman. His curiosity overcomes his reticence, and he stops at the doorway of the other lab. He's greeted with the sight of Claire and Hobbes struggling to restrain MacKenna, who's thrashing underneath them in an effort to escape.

"Get off... Get the _hell_ off!" she shrieks in panic. "Kev!"

Hobbes manages to look up and notice Darien hesitating in the doorway. "Fawkes, get over here!" He curses under his breath as one of MacKenna's fists crashes into his shoulder. He grabs both of her arms and slams them down on the hospital bed. Claire takes the woman's wrists and clasps them down at her sides, so that he can pin down her shoulders.

Darien hesitates for another moment before quickly striding over to the other side of the bed to face Claire. His face betrays the anxiety he feels at touching MacKenna's bare skin and repeating the events from a few days before.

Claire notices his faltering, and snaps, "Gloves. Behind you... on the counter!"

He spins around, grabs a pair of exam gloves and quickly pulls them on. He swings back to the bed and takes MacKenna's wrists from Claire. She snags a hypo and fills it with a sedative.

MacKenna hasn't stopped screaming. "Get _off_ of me, God-Dammit! Kev-_vin!_" Her back arches up off of the bed in an effort to twist free, but Darien throws himself over her torso and forces her back down onto the bed.

She tries to bite anything in her reach, and he yells as she grazes his ear, "Any_time_ now, Claire!"

The doctor grabs MacKenna's left elbow with one hand, steadies it, and plunges the needle into a bulging vein. Within seconds of the dispensing of the powerful sedative, she suddenly collapses back onto the bed. Although her body has gone slack, her eyes remain frantic and uncomprehending. The two agents and the doctor heave sighs of relief, and Darien cautiously lifts himself off of the bed. He keeps a firm grip on her forearms as Hobbes releases her shoulders to wipe at his brow. Claire drops the syringe down on the counter behind her, and finger-combs wisps of sweat-soaked hair back from her face.

MacKenna scrutinizes them for a few moments. "Who _are_ you people?" Her voice is rough from screaming, as well as from days of disuse. "Where am I? Where's my husband?"

Hobbes blinks down at her in bafflement, while Claire and Darien exchange perplexed gazes.

She looks back and forth between the three with absolutely no glimmer of recognition as to who they are.

"What? What's happened? Where're my babies? Where's Kevin?"

Darien's head rears back at the mention of his brother's name. "'Kevin'?"

Her eyes fasten onto his in entreaty. "Yes, my husband? Kevin Daniels. How is he?"

"Amanda, do you know what day it is?" Claire asks her as she glances over at the monitors.

The woman frowns as she probes her muddled thoughts for the answer. "... Saturday?" she replies hesitantly as her eyes refocus on the doctor's troubled expression.

Claire shakes her head, and shoots the two men a quelling look to make sure that they don't interrupt. "It's Wednesday. Do you know what year this is?"

"W-What do you mean? How, how long have I been out?" MacKenna's voice rises in agitation as she senses their troubled thoughts. The men look to Claire, and she again shakes her head at their unspoken questions.

"Would you _please_ just tell me what the hell is going on here!" MacKenna tries to tug her arms out from Darien's grasp, but she's too weak to do so. She glares at him, obviously searching for anything to latch onto to keep her panic from spiraling out of control. "You're hurting me."

He swallows nervously, hesitates for a moment, and then carefully eases his grip before releasing her arms and stepping back from the bed. Sensing movement out of the corner of his eye, he glances up towards the door and notes Monroe solemnly watching them as she leans on her crutches.

MacKenna follows his gaze, and frowns as a memory dances at the edges of her mind. "Do I, know you?" she asks the woman in the doorway.

Monroe's eyebrows crease as she glances questioningly at Claire. The doctor raises a hand in negation, at the same time regaining MacKenna's attention. "Amanda, I'm Dr. Keepley. You've sustained a brutal shock to your system, and have been in a coma for almost a week now."

"What? Why... I, don't remember."

"Your memory should return gradually over the next few days, but right now you just need to stay calm... and rest."

"But, w-what about my husband? And the kids?" She raises a shaking hand to her throbbing head and rubs around her temple. The combination of the sedative and the aftereffects of the waning adrenaline rush overwhelm her, and her eyelids begin to droop against her will.

Claire waves the others out of the room, and gently takes and lowers the woman's hand down to her side. "This isn't the time. We'll talk more later, but right now you need to get some more rest."

She manages to mumble "But haven't I slept enough?" just before she drifts into unconsciousness.

Claire checks that all of the monitoring equipment is still attached and functioning, and then picks up the fallen IV stand and reinserts the IV needle into MacKenna's hand. She then gently tugs the tangled covers into some semblance of order over the oblivious woman before turning to follow the others out of the lab.

As she walks out into the hall, she comes upon Darien leaning on the doorsill. He's been there watching her the whole time while the others were entering the main lab. As the door clicks shut behind her, he asks, "You really think her memories'll come back, too?"

Claire shrugs. "It might take a bit longer than it did for you, but yes, I think she has a sporting chance."

His face betrays the dark emotions roiling inside him, and she reaches out and almost touches his arm. "What's the matter?"

He shakes his head and backs away a step. "I almost wish she'd never remember what they'd done to her. She'll sleep a helluva lot better at night, then."

She grimaces in empathy. "It wouldn't be much of a blessing though. She'd have to learn all over again that her family was killed in that car accident; and I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

His face clouds over and becomes unreadable, and he shoves his hands deep into his pants pockets. "I need some air."

He starts off towards the stairs, and she calls after him, "Darien, you shouldn't leave the building..."

He stops and turns slowly to face her again. "I'm not," he states in a flat tone as he spins around on his heel. The stairwell door is roughly thrust open as the brooding man climbs the stairs towards the roof.

She watches him leave with eyes full of uneasiness, and ponders his unusual behavior as she reenters her lab.

Upstairs (about 3:25pm, Wednesday):

Monroe's office door opens a little, and Eberts peeks around the edge. "Agent Monroe, may I come in?"

She looks up from her book and waves him in. "Of course, Eberts. What's up?"

He glances uneasily over his shoulder to see if he was followed, then eases himself quickly into the room and shuts the door behind him. "We seem to have a situation downstairs."

Her brows crease. "What?" She inserts a marker in the pages and shuts her book. "Is MacKenna..."

He shakes his head. "No. It's The Official. I just came from His office, and... " He hesitates, and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket to dab at his brow.

"Well? Out with it," she interjects impatiently.

He carefully folds up the cloth and returns it to his lapel pocket. "The Director of The Shop is here..."

"Barnes?"

He nods. "With two agents, and an assistant. They're demanding to know where Miss MacKenna is."

"We'd better warn the others." She carefully hoists herself up from her chair and reaches for her crutches. He moves quickly to her side in case she requires assistance, but she waves him away. "Thank you, Eberts, but I'm getting the hang of this." She hobbles over to the intercom by her door and pushes one of the buttons. "Don't acknowledge; we have company. Stay put until I contact you."

Suddenly the door is thrust open, and one of the Shop agents appears in the doorway. "Agent Monroe, please come with me." He reaches out to grasp her elbow, but realizes that she's on crutches, and instead backs up a step and waves for her to leave the office. "You're needed for immediate debriefing."

"Ah, yes, Agent Eberts has just informed me of your arrival. Let me get my report..." She looks at the assistant in inquiry, and he steps over to her desk to picks up a thin folder. He raises it in question, and she nods an affirmation. He tucks it under his arm and returns to her side as the Shop agent begins to step inside the office in mild alarm.

Eberts glances at the man in innocent bemused query, and waits as the Shop agent stops, turns, and again waves for the two to precede him down the hall to the elevator.

As the doors open on the floor below, Eberts remains inside while the other two are stepping out. The Shop agent shoots him an imperious look, practically ordering him to get out and precede the man to The Official's office.

He surreptitiously pushes a button. "I'm so sorry, but there's one more person I need to fetch for the debriefing," he explains as the elevator doors suddenly slide shut.

Monroe lurches into the Shop agent's way as he lunges for the elevator door in an effort to prevent Eberts' 'escape'. "Oh, sorry," she apologizes facetiously as he automatically steadies her. "I just can't seem to get used to these stupid things." She straightens up with an engaging smile. "Agent Eberts is just fetching our resident doctor so she can give her report to the Director as well. They'll be here in a few minutes. Shall we?" She indicates The Official's office down the hall. At a momentary loss as to what to do, the man shadows her to the door.

Wednesday afternoon, 3:30pm

MacKenna stirs fretfully; in the next room, Claire recognizes the agitation of a woman in the midst of a nightmare. She sets down a can of fish food and shuts the top of the tank over the swarming marine life inside. She walks over to the other lab, and enters just as MacKenna snaps awake.

"Wh-wha?" she stammers as she attempts to sit up. Claire catches her arm just as it slips out from under her.

"Don't try to get up just yet: you're still too weak," the doctor warns gently. She helps the woman lie back down on the bed, and then rearranges the sheets and pillow. She then goes to the back of the room to fetch a cloth, wets it down at the sink, and then returns to her patient's side to carefully clean the sweat from her face.

"What time is it?"

Claire checks her watch. "It's three-thirty. Do you know who I am?"

She blinks as she searches her mind. "Dr. ... Keepley?"

The doctor smiles, encouraged with her patient's progress. "That's right. How are you feeling?" She places a supportive hand on the woman's back as she raises the head of the bed to more of a sitting position.

The invalid rubs the back of her neck with a grimace. "Well, better than last time. What day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"What happened?"

Claire hesitates before she answers. "What do you remember?"

She frowns. "I-I dunno. It's all muddled." She falls silent as she wracks her battered brain for answers. "I remember, what was it? Yesterday?"

"You came out of your coma this morning," Claire corrects her.

"Oh. You were here. And two guys. Was there a woman, at the door? On crutches?"

The doctor nods.

"She's, so familiar. The short guy, too." She yawns and scrubs the sleepies from her eyes with both fists, and then winces as the torn muscles in her right arm protest. "_Ow_." She looks down at her arm as she gingerly touches the bandage. "I was shot, wasn't I?"

Claire's eyebrows knit as she regards her patient. She nods.

MacKenna continues as she stares at the bandage without noticing the doctor's reaction. "There was this... room. A lot like this one, but... bigger." Her eyes narrow as a jumbled knot of emotions swells within her. "I, I didn't want to be there." She falls silent, her unfocused eyes darting back and forth, as she tries to process the memory fragments writhing through her mind.

Her fingers worry at a frayed edge of the blanket covering her legs.

The lab door slides open, and Darien enters. Hobbes is behind him, but he leans on the doorsill after his partner enters the room. MacKenna doesn't seem to notice them, but Claire looks up as they come in. She raises a finger to her lips in supplication for them to remain silent.

Hobbes nods, and motions to her if she wants them to leave. She shakes her head as she indicates that he's fine where he is. Darien strides over to the other side of the bed from Claire and leans up against the table behind him.

"_Dam_mit!" MacKenna strikes the side of the bed with her fist in frustration. "It's all there, I _know_ it... _hhhaaaaahh_..." she growls as she hunches her legs up to her chest. She wraps her arms tightly around her knees and drops her forehead down onto them.

Claire rests a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder. "Don't push yourself so hard; it'll come back to you, in time."

She raises her head to gaze hopelessly into the doctor's eyes. "When? Tomorrow? Next year?" She sighs heavily. "I just, have this, horrible feeling that I'm, running _out_ of time."

The doctor shoots an alarmed look at the men before returning her attention to her patient. She's at a momentary loss for words.

Suddenly, the intercom buzzes, and Monroe's voice murmurs over the speaker. _"Don't acknowledge; we have company. Stay put until I contact you."_

Hobbes and Claire exchange questioning glances as he steps into the room and allows the lab door to slide shut behind him. Darien continues staring darkly at MacKenna, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world.

Her head whips around to him. "What, is your problem?" she snaps as she glares at him self-consciously.

He blinks himself out of his reverie, and looks directly into her eyes. "What?"

"You've had this weird look on your face since you came in."

"Didn't think you noticed."

The corner of her mouth twitches. "I notice _every_thing."

Hobbes snorts softly. "Sounds familiar."

She glances questioningly at him. "What do you mean?"

He grins conspiratorially. "_Enh_, it's just something I do, too."

She searches his face with her eyes, frowning. "We've met before," she states in a detached tone.

Claire clears her throat to regain the woman's attention. "Amanda, how would you like to get out of bed for awhile?"

She blinks out of her rumination, turns her gaze to the doctor, and nods.

Hobbes comments, "Uh, hey, you think that's such a good idea?" The women look at him, and he continues. "You know, what with..." he nods towards the intercom with raised eyebrows.

MacKenna frowns, not understanding his reference, but Claire shakes her head. "Now's as good a time." She lowers the protective side bar on the bed, helps her patient pull off the blankets and carefully swing her legs over the edge. She turns around, snags her cardigan from the back of an office chair, and covers the other woman's shoulders with it. MacKenna smiles her thanks and holds on to the doctor's arm as she gingerly slides off of the bed.

"Lock your knees," Claire advises her as her feet touch the floor.

"Whoaa." Her legs shudder spasmically as they threaten to give out and pitch both women to the ground. Claire spreads her feet widely apart as the other woman strives to lock her knees.

Meanwhile, upstairs (approximately 3:15pm, Wednesday)...

The Official's office door bursts open to reveal Barnes, Noble, and two Shop agents. Barnes' expression is granite, with his eyes glittering in barely suppressed wrath. He stalks into the office with Noble barely a step behind and to the left of him.

The Official's gaze snaps upwards, and His face drains of all color as He recognizes the men entering. He hastily drops His pen onto the desk as He half-rises from His chair. One of The Shop agents positions himself at the other door, while the second closes and locks the office door behind him.

Barnes stalks over to the desk and slams his open hands down, startling the already jittery man behind it. "Where are they?" he demands coldly.

The Official blinks as He attempts to compose Himself. "Who?"

Barnes' eyes narrow. "I don't have the patience for your games, _Mister_ Borden. You will tell me where Amanda Daniels is... _now_."

Over His momentary shock, He glances over at Eberts. His assistant is standing frozen in the corner with a stack of pink forms in his hands, looking very much like a deer caught in floodlights. He nods imperceptibly towards the door, and Eberts nods in affirmation, looking relieved at the dismissal.

Noble steps over and casually takes the pink forms from the other man's nerveless fingers. He glances at the open cabinet and casually comments, "Excellent system. I've found that color-coding is by far the most superior method."

"Thank you," Eberts replies, taken aback with the compliment. "There are other methods I employ as well..." he begins, but is interrupted by the Director and The Official.

"Noble..."

the men warn ominously, and the two assistants drop their eyes and part ways.

"Eberts..."

As Eberts cautiously eases towards the main door, The Official returns His gaze evenly to the incensed man in front of Him. "Have you heard of an organization known as Chrysalis?" He replies in a bland tone.

Barnes frowns, unsure if he was being led astray, but then nods cautiously. "Yes."

The Official grunts and averts His gaze to the taciturn scene transpiring at His office door. Eberts has been halted by the two Shop agents, who are menacingly gripping the butts of their guns. The assistant has his chin raised in defiance, but just can't seem to bring himself to graze past the two men.

Barnes' gaze follows His, and he curtly gestures for his men to allow Eberts to exit. They hesitate before slowly standing aside and leaving barely enough room for him to squeeze through to the door.

At The Official's encouraging nod, His nervous assistant steels himself and hastily brushes by and out the door. One of The Shop agents moves to follow him, and Barnes shakes his head. "Wait outside." The agent tilts his head to the side in inquiry, but follows orders and repositions himself outside the other office door.

Barnes returns his attention to The Official. "So?"

He raises His chin, and takes a breath to start spinning His web of truth, half-truths and lies like the master He is.


	10. Chapter Ten

Thursday, 11:00am

Monroe hobbles, sans crutches (but with a cane), down the hallway in the basement. Every time she puts weight on her injured leg, she winces and mumbles an invective. To her left is MacKenna, walking just as slowly and leaning heavily on her cane. _Incidentally, it's the same one Darien was supposed to have used on Monday._ Both women are pale and sweating from their exertions.

Following closely behind them is Claire, with a mildly worried and yet encouraged look on her face.

"Slow down, Alex," she chastises lightly. "You're not going to run marathons anytime soon."

"Maybe not, but the least I can do is make it down this hall," is the sour reply. "I am so sick of sitting on my ass."

"Hear, hear," MacKenna murmurs in agreement. With each step she ends up putting more and more of her weight on the cane, until her knees start to noticeably wobble.

Claire lays her hand gently on the other woman's shoulder, which stops her in her tracks. "Let's take a moment to rest," the doctor advises.

"I can rest when I'm dead," she retorts, and sets off again towards the end of the hall. But just as she passes the bathroom doors, her knees give out on her: pitching her right into Darien's arms just as he emerges from the men's room. "_Ahh, shit!_" she grits out under her breath.

Darien self-consciously moves his hands, from a rather sensitive area above her waistline, to her shoulders as he helps her to straighten up. "Nice to see you, too."

Claire and Monroe smile a little as they observe the two blushing. Monroe's expression seems to say: _'Awwww, isn't that sweet.'_

"Darien, what are you doing down here? I thought you went upstairs for awhile," Claire asks him as she comes to MacKenna's side and offers her arm for support. The shorter woman seems relieved at the opportunity to get some space between her and Darien.

He pulls his gaze from MacKenna's disconcerted face. "Couldn't raise you on the intercom, so I thought I'd make sure you guys're okay."

"That's sweet, Fawkes. Really," Monroe comments facetiously. "Is that the, _only_, reason you're down here?"

He grimaces a little in distaste at her allusion. "No. We're ordering delivery for lunch. Thai food okay?"

Monroe and Claire nod as they realize that they're hungry, and MacKenna looks a little bewildered.

"What's the matter? Never had Thai before?" he asks her.

She shakes her head. "That's the problem. I don't remember."

Claire smiles at her in reassurance. "If it makes you feel better, your medical records make no mention of food allergies."

"_Hunh_, as if _They_ cared," MacKenna mutters drearily.

"So who's paying for lunch?" Monroe queries. She's noticed the sly grin on Darien's face. "Wait a minute, don't tell me that..."

He nods. "Yep. Big Man's springing for the grub. You should'a seen Hobbes and Eberts' faces; it was priceless. Wish I had a camera."

Claire pulls MacKenna aside a bit while the two agents banter about lunch. "Look, I know this is difficult for you,"

The shorter woman snorts at the understatement.

"But you need to have some patience," Claire finishes uninterrupted.

"That's what got me in this mess in the first place," MacKenna replies heatedly. She explains as she notes Claire's confused frown. "If I hadn't been so damned impatient to find some sort of a remedy for ADHD, I'd _never_'ve gotten involved with that experiment."

The doctor's frown deepens. "I'm not so sure about that." At the other woman's confounded scowl: "The files mention that you'd been selected for the first round of human testing be_fore_ you'd even known about its existence. I have a feeling that you would've been involved in that experiment one way or another, whether you wanted to or not. So you really shouldn't dwell too much on your past decisions," she begins.

"Kinda hard for an obsessive-impulsive," MacKenna interrupts with quiet ferocity.

"But there's nothing you can do to change what's happened," is the rejoinder. "So let's just concentrate on the here-and-now, shall we?"

"Yeah, as in lunch," Darien cuts in lightheartedly. "Even better: the Boss's paying!"

As Claire breaks away from the group towards the elevator, he takes the cane from MacKenna and hooks her now free hand around his elbow. "Time for you to get some sunshine. How's about a picnic on the roof?"

She shrinks away from his touch, but for some reason, there's no reaction from the brief skin contact.

"What?" Darien asks.

The diminutive woman frowns in confusion. "No sparks."

He shrugs away her concern. "Hey, don't look a gift horse in the mouth. We all need to unwind a bit, so let's just save the science experiment crap for later, huh?"

They set off for the elevator a few yards away. But again MacKenna hesitates.

"What _now_?" he utters impatiently.

"As much as I'd love going outside, Barnes might have people watching this place."

He shakes his head in disbelief. "God, you're almost as paranoid as Hobbes," he retorts.

"From you, Fawkes, that's a compliment," Monroe adds with a small grin.

Claire isn't amused at their repartee. "Amanda has a point. There's no guarantee that The Director bought the whole story. We'd all be safer if we just stayed in The Official's office for now."

"Kill-joy," Darien mutters as the elevator doors open.

Thursday 1:00pm

Everyone's gathered around the circular table at the front of The Official's office. Thai takeout cartons are strewn all over it: some are partially full, but most are completely cleaned out.

Monroe, Claire and Eberts have pushed their chairs back from the table. Hobbes continues to pick at what's left of his meal, while Darien and MacKenna are still shoveling away as if they haven't eaten in weeks. It took a few minutes for her to start eating, but when she noticed that the others were serving themselves from all of the containers, she'd let her guard down a bit and served herself a plateful.

_"Kinda hard to trust any food after eight years of eating it laced with god knows what,"_ she had explained around a mouthful of Spicy Beef and Broccoli.

Occasionally they inspect the other containers for remnants to clean out, and they show no signs of slowing down.

They seem unaware of the others watching them in almost disgusted fascination.

Darien passes MacKenna a container of noodles just as she hands him a bowl of fried rice; it's almost as if they're wordlessly anticipating the other's thoughts.

A few more minutes pass, with the silence broken only by the delighted chewing noises from the two experimentals as they finish up the last of the food and finally push their respective containers back.

MacKenna sighs in satisfaction and Darien noiselessly belches as he leans back in his chair and cracks open a fortune cookie.

Monroe mutters to herself, "That was... _so_ gross."

The Official leans back in His chair as He picks contentedly at His teeth with a toothpick. His gaze sweeps over the assembled group of adults before settling back on MacKenna. His eyebrows twitch as He witnesses a mixture of emotions swirling across the woman's face: satiation, delight at eating non-institutionalized food for the first time in years, and the ever present uneasiness with her surroundings. He absently wonders how long it will be before she starts frowning again.

And, as if she's read his mind, the familiar scowl clouds over her face. Her gaze fixates on her fidgeting hands as she plunges deep into her troubled thoughts.

"Ya know, you might feel a little better if you smiled more," Hobbes quietly counsels her.

"Ex_cuse_ me?" She looks at him as if he's sprouted another head.

At the same time, Claire quietly responds to Monroe's aversion with no indication of surprise at MacKenna and Darien's behavior. "I've noticed a sharp increase in Amanda's metabolic rate, which would explain her appetite."

"What about him?" Monroe indicates Darien with a jerk of her chin.

His head swings around. "You know, I haven't really eaten anything in a few days, unless you count that stuff I got through the IV," he responds a bit sourly.

Hobbes shrugs in mild discomfort under the severity of MacKenna's stare. "Well, it's been found that smiling when you're depressed actually makes you feel better..."

She breaks in with restrained ferocity before he can finish his thought. "Look, I've been poked, prodded, sliced, diced and julienned for the past eight _freakin'_ years. What the _hell_ do you expect me to be now: Little Miss Happy Mary Sunshine?"

Noticing the tension levels rising in the room, Eberts rises and begins to clear off the table in his usual unobtrusive manner.

She swings her head around to The Official, effectively breaking off her exchange with a thoroughly discomfited Hobbes. "What are you going to do with me?"

"What?" Hobbes asks as everyone's gaze pivots back over to the conflicted woman.

The Official's eyes narrow as He contemplates how to respond to her question. MacKenna's gaze fixes on Him, and it's as if there was no one else in the room. "Well?" she asks.

Something flits through His eyes... An emotion.

Uncertainty.

He opens His mouth to say something...

But Hobbes unwittingly interrupts. "We're not going to _do_ anything with you; but I think it's pretty obvious what Barnes and his goons want," he looks around at the others before his gaze settles back on MacKenna. "Right?"

She inclines her head slightly. "Yeah, me. Dead."

Darien puts his two cents in. "But, you're worth more to them alive."

"Not anymore," is the pensive reply. "The final phase of the experiment was just about over. It's not like I was one of their agents they could just put out in the field or anything."

"Ah, yes," Claire agrees with her unease apparent in her voice and body language, and all eyes turn to her. "Amanda's files inferred as much. The last entry stated that she was being transferred for some sort of final phase in the research, and then... 'deactivation'."

"See?" MacKenna grits out between her teeth. The others notice that she's paled, her eyes glittering with hatred and despair. "So I ask you again, _Sir_, what are you going to do with me?" she addresses The Official.

Darien reaches over and lays a comforting hand on her arm. Luckily for the both of them, she's wearing Claire's long-sleeved cardigan. "We're _not_ handing you over to them," he replies fiercely.

"You got _that_ right," Hobbes agrees.

There's a moment of tense silence. MacKenna continues to stare steadily at The Official, and once again all eyes are on Him. He still looks uncertain, but He seems to have come to a resolution. "You're welcome to stay with us until you're fully recovered. We can place you in a safe house..."

"What!" Darien interrupts. "What do you mean, until she's 'fully recovered'? Why can't she stay here?"

"Because, my friend," Hobbes interjects, "she still has some pretty powerful people hunting for her."

"That's never stopped us before," is the heated retort.

"_That_ was a special case," The Official contends in an unspoken reference to Dr. Gaither.

"Aren't they _all_?" Darien shoots back.

"Waitaminute. Excuse me, are you saying you want me to, _join_ you, as a member of this Agency?" MacKenna interrupts.

"Well, yeah," Darien replies. "We've got the resources to help you..."

Eberts nervously clears his throat.

"And I'd say you've a lot to offer to help us out, too. What do you think?"

"I think that's what they told me to get me involved with the Adduco Project in the first place," she replies caustically. "You know, I used to be your above-average, abnormally happy woman with a husband... babies... a _family_. All that's gone now, and you expect me to say what? 'Yeah, sure, I'd _love_ to join your happy little family here'? I _had_ a family... they're all _dead_ now... and for what it's worth, so am I." Her face is set like stone, but her eyes betray the intensity of her anguish and fury.

Darien tries to reassure her. "Look, you're not dead yet..."

"Yeah, well, I might as well be. You think Barnes's just gonna let me go without a fight? Dream_ on_, man! He will hunt me down and take me out, and there's not a _goddamn thing_ anyone can do about it."

Hobbes pipes up. "Well, I wouldn't say _that_, necessarily..."

She cuts him off before he can continue. "_I_ would. And I do. Have you ever dealt with The Shop before?"

Monroe and The Official both look increasingly discomfited.

MacKenna notices. "_They_ have," she indicates them with two jerks of her chin. "You get in these guy's way, and you just... _disappear_." She snaps her fingers. "And when they're done with you, it'll be like you _never_ existed." Her expression changes as she has a realization. She looks at Hobbes. "You don't have any immediate family, do you?"

She looks at Claire, Monroe, and then Darien. "You don't; and you; not you either. There's no one outside this room to miss any of you when you're dead, are there? So essentially, the only family you do have is each other. And ya know what? That's more than I'll _ever_ have. They took everyone I loved away from me, and they'll do it to you, too. And I can't let that happen again. I _won't_. I can't let anyone else die because of me; so the faster I'm outta here, the better off you all are."

"And what are you gonna do, run?" Darien asks.

She just looks at him, at a loss for words. Her eyes say, _'What else can I do?'_

Eberts pipes in as he has an inspired thought. "What about, Chrysalis?"

The Official's head swings around to regard His assistant. "What about them?"

He looks up from the trash bag he's tying shut, and realizes that all eyes are now on him. He swallows nervously. "From what Darien reported of the conversation he overheard between Mr. Stark and Monsieur de Fehrn, they were expecting Miss MacKenna to escape from here at her first available opportunity, and then somehow find her way back to them."

Darien cocks his head to the side as he digests that notion, and MacKenna frowns in speculation. Monroe and Hobbes exchange knowing concerned glances, while Claire and The Official nod their understanding of where Eberts was heading with his thought.

"Continue, Eberts," The Official prompts.

"Well, when she's feeling better, why don't we just give them what they want?"

Darien scowls. "You mean, send her in as a double-agent?"

"Of course!" Hobbes verbally applauds. "They can take the heat from The Shop, while Amy here gets protection, resources, and whatever dirt on those scumbags she can dig up! Nice thinking, Eberts," he nods his praise to the other man, and the assistant blushes at the unexpected compliment.

"S'cuse me people, but we seem to be forgetting the last time we tried this," Darien breaks in. He looks around the table at blank faces. "Remember? I got caught downloading Stark's hard drive, and was almost de-"

"Yes, yes," The Official breaks in before His lanky employee divulges pertinent glandular information. "This time, will be different."

"And how can that be?" Darien challenges in a hostile tone.

"Because I don't work here," MacKenna interjects. Darien's head swings around to regard her darkly, and she continues. "You were already an agent here when that went down, right? I'm not allied with anyone; so if I show up at Stark's office with the disks and a plausible cover story, then they'd have little reason to think I'm lying. That about cover your thoughts on this?" she directs her last sentence to The Official, who nods in agreement.

"Pretty much."

"One problem though," she retorts. "I don't see a reason for me to be helping you."

"We saved your life, you ungrateful little..." Monroe snaps.

MacKenna fixes her with a fiery glare. "And I didn't _ask_ you to," she interrupts quietly.

"So you would've rather we left you there to die."

"Y-yay-yah. It sure as hell beats the alternatives." The two women glower at each other for a few moments.

"Would you knock it off?" Darien interrupts testily. "Look, Amanda... Amy," he catches her gaze and stares intently into her eyes. "We're not in this for any reason other than to help you out..."

"Maybe _you_ aren't," she interjects in an acid tone as she shoots an enigmatic glare at his Boss.

"Why is it so damned hard for you to trust us!" he finishes as he smacks the table with the palm of his hand. She jumps a little at the unexpected ferocity of his gesture, and he notes a glimmer of an old, yet familiar fear in the back of her eyes.

She swallows hard and nods at Hobbes. "Him, I trust." She looks back at Darien. "And, _may_be you. But the others..." she shakes her head. Claire's jaw drops in disbelief at not being included in the trusted category, and MacKenna notices the doctor's reaction. "No offense intended, Doctor. You'll have to understand that for the past eight years, I've been dealing with research doctors constantly telling me that they have my best interests at heart; and then turning around and doing the exact opposite. I just can't _afford_ to fully trust you; at least, not right now."

"I... understand," is the modest response.

"_I_ don't," Hobbes pipes up. "Why'd you say you can trust _me_?"

MacKenna lifts one of her hands slowly from the table, echoing her action from the night she 'pushed' him to tell her the truth. "You can't lie to me, remember?" she prods gently. A tiny smile briefly flits across her face as the memory pops into focus in his mind. Another thought occurs to him, and he opens his mouth to ask the question...

But she beats him to the punch. "As far as I know: yes, it's permanent. As long as the commands are brief and specific, then there shouldn't be any adverse long-term effects."

"Well, that's just great. _Won_derful. So now what?" Darien grumbles.

"I think this is the part where your boss says 'You're free to go', gives me the disks, and I walk out that door," MacKenna replies with guarded optimism.

"That's not such a good idea," Claire replies.

The other woman's face crumples into weary vigilance. "I knew it," she murmurs. "Here it comes."

The doctor shakes her head in frustration as she stands. "Stand up," she orders. MacKenna shoots her a questioning glance. "Stand _up_," she repeats, and the other woman carefully moves to comply.

She grasps the edge of the table with one hand and guides the chair back with the other as she rises. A moment passes, and suddenly her legs wobble violently before giving out from underneath her. She pitches back into her chair, and Darien half-rises in a reaction to help her.

Claire just stands there with a no-nonsense_ 'I told you so'_ look on her face.

MacKenna glares at her as she readjusts herself in the chair. "Your point?"

"You're not going anywhere in the shape you're in."

"So what do I do in the meantime? Sit pretty and play lab rat to your mad scientist?"

Darien unintentionally snorts in amusement, and Claire shoots him a quelling glare.

"No," is the curt reply. "You'll continue your rehabilitative exercises with Agent Monroe until I'm satisfied that you can handle being on your own out there."

MacKenna's face acquires a wry aspect to it. "You're, actually concerned about my well-being, aren't you?"

"Yes," is the doctor's exasperated reply.

MacKenna taps Darien lightly on his elbow. "You know, she's kinda cute when she's angry, isn't she?"

He grins widely as Claire tilts her head in a stern effort to mask her irritation at the shorter woman's teasing.

Thursday 4:30pm

The door to Lab 101 slides open to reveal Monroe and MacKenna both leaning heavily on canes in the hall. The younger woman waves for the agent to precede her into the Lab, and they carefully limp over to the two chairs waiting beside the giant fish tank in the middle of the left side of the lab. Both of their faces are beaded with sweat.

Darien's sitting in the exam chair, allowing Claire to take yet another blood sample for testing. They both look up when the door opens, and he grins a greeting while she looks back down to finish the task at hand. The doctor pulls the needle out, places a cotton ball on the puncture site, and hands him a Band Aid before placing the vial of blood in a small rack on a rolling tray table beside her.

She calls out over her shoulder to the women on the other side of the lab; "I'll be with you in a second."

Monroe slowly eases down into her chair. She grimaces as she begins massaging the tense and sore muscles around the bandage on her leg. "And the Invalid 500 ends in a photo-finish. Y'know, I think I might've popped a stitch with that last lap," she comments in an aside to MacKenna.

The auburn-haired woman plops down in her chair and gingerly tests her healing shoulder by rolling it around in the socket. "Hey, I wanted to take a break, but you insisted," she returns.

"Oh, c'_mon_,"

"I'm not the one with a hole in my leg,"

"No, just one in your arm and a couple extra in your head,"

"Oh, you _bitch_..." MacKenna's eyes narrow a little in anger; that last light-hearted gibe hit a little too close to home.

"Whoa, ladies," Darien interrupts the bantering before it gets too serious. "Don't make me separate you," he finishes as he strides over to their side of the room.

"She started it," Monroe asserts.

Abruptly, MacKenna's face closes off like a protective wall's dropped down over her vulnerable emotions.

"Well, _some_body sure is moody today," Monroe comments under her breath.

Darien notices the sudden shift in MacKenna's mood and steps over to her side. He lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. "What's the matter?"

She shakes her head and shrugs his hand off. "Nothing."

He takes a step back to give her a little space. "No, it's _some_thing. What?"

She grimaces, and then carefully rises from her chair to pace part-ways across the room. "Just when I start to feel like a normal human being, reality boots me upside the head." She raises haunted eyes to regard the others.

Monroe finishes massaging her leg, and rearranges herself to a more comfortable position in her chair. "Everything's come back?"

"Unfortunately, yeah," she sighs deeply, and rubs at the back of her neck in an unconscious effort to ease tense muscles. "I always had a touch of paranoia, you know, be_fore_,"

Claire steps into view from the other half of the lab room with the small rack of vials in her hands. She looks concerned with the other woman's state of mind.

MacKenna continues, uninterrupted. "But now, I can't stop wondering: why me? Why'd they have to pick _me_? Why'd I survive, and so many others didn't? And why the hell did I have to ask so many Goddamned questions in the first place? I just _had_ to be smart, didn't I? Too smart for my own good." She drops her head down behind her hair in an effort to hide the sudden rush of tears she's fighting to suppress.

Darien starts towards the distressed woman, but hesitates and stops as he sees Claire set down the vial rack and move towards her. The doctor places a soothing hand on the shorter woman's uninjured shoulder before gently hugging her. MacKenna doesn't return the loose embrace, but just leans slightly into the taller woman as she fights down the sobs that threaten to overtake her.

Disconcerted and not knowing how to handle it, Darien rapidly strides across the room and out the lab door without another word.

Monroe and Claire notice his odd reaction, and exchange troubled glances as the door slides shut behind him.


	11. Chapter Eleven

A few hours later, Darien returns with Hobbes trailing along behind him. Unfortunately, what with Barnes and his men hanging around in the city now, Darien, Hobbes and especially MacKenna have to remain hidden inside the building until The Shop folks return to Virginia.

Monroe, Eberts and The Official had gone home around 5:30pm, so the three have the whole building to themselves for the night.

The door slides open to reveal MacKenna in the middle of some stretching exercises in the right side of the lab. The Smashing Pumpkins is blasting from a radio on the counter behind her, and Claire is nowhere to be seen.

_"... Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage..."_

Wearing only the sleeveless black tank top and cut-off sweat shorts that she wore the night she met Darien and the others, MacKenna hastily stops in the middle of bending over backwards when she sees who's entering the lab. She loses her balance and thumps on the floor with a muttered curse. She then ducks behind the exam chair to pull on a lab coat she'd hung there earlier as she turns off the radio.

_"... What was lost can never be saved... despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a... CAGE!" **snickt**_

"Oh, hey, don't stop because of us," Darien greets her warmly.

"Thanks," she replies uncomfortably. "But I don't much like having an audience."

Hobbes scans the room. "Where's the Keep?"

"She went out for some stuff. Should be back pretty soon," she replies as she finishes buttoning the lab coat. She walks over to Claire's computer and sits down stiffly in front of it.

Darien steps closer. "You okay? You look... kinda nervous."

She avoids looking at him. "Well, I'm not exactly in my element here, if you know what I mean."

"I think so," he replies quietly. "You've been through a lot..."

"No shit," she mutters as she unconsciously scratches at the palms of her hands.

"Anything I can do to help?" he finishes as he stops a few paces away from her.

MacKenna glances up at him. "Yeah. No offense, but, keep your distance."

He frowns, wondering if he did something to tick her off.

She notices and holds up her hands, palm out. "Zippity-zap?" she reminds him.

"Ah," he nods, and backs up to lean on the edge of the fish tank's table behind him.

Meanwhile, Hobbes has been casually surveying the layout of the lab. He leans on the partition between the two halves of the room as he asks, "So, what's she picking up?"

"Claire? Some clothes and, stuff," MacKenna replies with a little hesitation.

"'Stuff'..." he prods.

She sighs. "Soap, shampoo, deodorant... you know, stuff I can wash up with? It's been a few days since I last showered, you know," she sounds irritated with his probing.

"That's it?"

"Uh yeah. Would you like an itemized list?" she snaps.

"Cut it out Hobbes," Darien chastises his partner lightly before turning back to MacKenna. "You had any dinner?"

She nods as she shoots Hobbes a nasty glare. "Yeah. But she's picking up a pizza while she's out, too."

His stomach rumbles loudly. "Oo, what kind?"

"Onions, peppers, mushrooms... and ham, I think."

"Fawkes, we just ate about an hour ago!" Hobbes protests. "You can't be hungry again!"

Darien grins sheepishly. "Yup."

"Man, that's just _weird_," the shorter man grumbles. "Frickin' hollow legs."

"What can I say? I'm making up for lost time here."

MacKenna scrutinizes the lanky man thoughtfully. "I know why I'm like this, but you," she pauses as she ponders the possibilities. "I can't see why _you_'d be the same way..." Her eyes unfocus as she runs calculations in her mind, and she suddenly swivels her chair around to face Claire's computer. "Maybe there's something in the files..." she mutters under her breath as she begins tapping away at the keyboard. A couple of document windows open up, and she begins scrolling through them methodically.

The guys exchange puzzled glances. What the devil was she talking about?

She leans forward as she squints her eyes at the screen, and the front of her partially buttoned lab coat falls open slightly.

"You know what?" Hobbes states as Darien approaches the computer. His friend seems to have abruptly forgotten that he's there. "Think I'll run a perimeter check, make sure the building's secure. You hanging here for a while, Fawkes?"

No answer. Darien's leaning over MacKenna's shoulder, completely engrossed with whatever she's doing.

"Fawkes," Hobbes raises his voice.

"Huh? What?" Darien's head swings around. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be here," he reassures his friend offhandedly with a wave of his hand, and his attention veers right back to the vicinity of the computer screen.

"Yeah. Right." Hobbes checks his watch, grabs his Lithium bottle from the inside pocket of his jacket and pops a couple into his mouth. He dry-swallows them as he stalks to the lab door. "See you later." He shakes his head in mild disgust as he leaves the lab.

As the door's sliding shut, Darien's head dips down a little towards MacKenna's. He sniffs lightly at her loosely bound hair.

She recoils from his nearness. "What the _hell_'re you doing!"

One corner of his mouth tugs up in a light smile. "Your hair... it smells nice."

Her head turns a little so she can look at him out of the corner of her eye. "Didn't you hear me when I said I haven't bathed in a few days?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, so I _stink_."

"Not really. You smell nice; kinda like roses," he replies softly. He sniffs her hair again as his hands come to rest lightly on her shoulders. Warm breath tickles as he nuzzles her ear with his nose.

"Darien, would you _please_ knock it off?" She shrinks away in an effort to get some distance between them. He gets the hint and pulls back a little.

But only just a little.

He peers over her shoulder at the documents on the computer screen. He's so close that she can smell the last vestiges of his aftershave. A few moments pass as she tries to ignore his closeness, concentrate on finding the particular entries on increased metabolism from the research files, and ignore the escalating waves of heat rushing into the palms of her hands.

He leans on the back of her chair. "You know," he breathes thoughtfully into her ear. "You _are_ pretty cute, for a..." he pauses as he's distracted by the glimpse of cleavage from his vantage point.

She stops scrolling down the document and once again turns her head enough to look at him askance. "What? A fat chick?" she replies wryly. "Wow, gee, _thanks_ mister." She turns back to the computer screen and furtively glances down at her hands. The burning sensation was getting more intense, so she shakes them a little before resuming her typing on the keyboard.

He notices. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just not used to all this typing anymore," she half-lies as she tries to squelch her reaction to his seductive behavior.

His hands move as if drawn from the back of the chair, and he begins to gently massage her tense shoulders. She attempts to shrug him off and edges away, but he automatically follows her as if pulled by a string. She continues to edge away until she falls off the chair and unceremoniously plops onto the floor. He blinks in surprise, and then reaches out to catch her arm and help her stand...

She smacks his hand away in irritated alarm. "Just back _off_!" She scoots back until she bumps against the legs of the table behind her, and catches the edge to hoist herself up. She glares at him in near panic as she realizes that the palms of her hands are rapidly heating up the cold metal of the table under them.

"What? What's the matter?" he asks in utter puzzlement. _'Man, is this chick jumpy,'_ he thinks to himself.

Her eyes dart around the room as she searches for something to ground out on. Finally, her gaze settles on the giant fish tank a few feet away in the middle of the room. As Darien prepares to step towards her, she darts around him and plunges her burning hands into the water of the tank.

There's a sizzling crack-y sound, and a modest cloud of steam almost envelops the diminutive woman as it billows across the ceiling.

... Just as Claire enters the lab.

"I brought you a few changes in clothing, too. I hope I have the right sizes... What the bloody hell?" she exclaims in alarm. She almost drops the large pizza box in her hands as the duffel bag of personal effects slips off from her shoulder.

"What? What's going on here?" Hobbes barks as he rushes into the room. He bumps into Claire, causing her to finally drop everything precariously balanced in her arms. "Oh my god, Claire, I'm so sorry..." he blurts out in embarrassment, and bends down to help her pick up the scattered items.

In the middle of the room, MacKenna's legs have given way, and she's sunk down to the floor. She isn't having a seizure, but she's cradling her hands to her chest in severe pain.

Darien stands frozen in bafflement, wondering what the hell had just happened.

"What the _hell_ just happened?" he blurts out to no one in general.

MacKenna gasps silently in an effort to control the white-hot needles of agony stabbing at the palms of her hands. She manages to grit out "Circuitry overload," before curling up around her scorched hands and rocking back and forth on her butt. "_Crap_crapcrapcrap_crap_..." she gasps under her breath.

Claire overhears their exchange over Hobbes' repeated murmured apologies for bumping into her. She rises, leaving him to pick up the rest of the stuff she dropped, and strides over to the fish tank. Her eyes widen in amazement as she sees that the water level's dropped at least an inch or so, with all but a couple of fish having been cooked to death. And the remaining two are looking about ready to go belly-up at any second.

"How did you..." she begins, and then notices that her patient's down on the floor on the other side of the tank. She immediately rounds the table, drops down to MacKenna's side, and tries to get a better look at the woman's hands.

"No! Don't touch me!" MacKenna grunts and shrinks away from Claire's touch on her arm. But the doctor gives her a stern look and firmly presses her to be still, and she relents once she realizes who it _isn't_.

Back at the door, Hobbes has noticed the condition of the fish tank. "Whoa, someone's really been craving seafood," he comments in a low tone.

Claire gently pulls MacKenna's right hand away from her chest and scrutinizes it. The fingers are curled in towards her palm, where the skin is a mottled and sickly white and already blistering. The left hand shows little difference. Without looking up, the now grim-faced doctor orders "Darien, get me the first-aid kit."

The demand jolts him into motion, and he quickly treads over to the other side of the lab, retrieves the kit, and returns to her side. He kneels down and first hands her a pair of surgical gloves, and then a medium-sized tube of burn cream. Once the gloves are on, she carefully pries MacKenna's fingers open and applies a generous dollop of the cream to the palms of her hands... while the other woman hisses through her teeth from the fresh stabbing needles of pain each little movement brings on. Darien then hands Claire a roll of thin gauze, of which she gently wraps around MacKenna's hands to protect the burns.

Claire lowers the woman's left hand down to her lap, and steadily gazes into her green eyes. "Now, what brought _that_ on?"

MacKenna blushes deeply, and her eyes dart momentarily to Darien's face before resting on an innocuous spot on the floor between her knees. The action speaks volumes to the doctor, who turns and imperiously orders Darien out of the room.

"Darien, _out_."

He looks surprised. "What did _I_ do?"

She stares at him sternly. "I don't know, but obviously _some_thing went on here while I was gone. Why don't you help Hobbes do a perimeter check while Amanda and I talk?"

"Well, actually, I was just coming back from..." Hobbes begins.

"Bobby," Claire interrupts. "It never hurts to double-check yourself, does it?" She shoots him a pleading look, and he gets her hint.

He sets the stuff he had picked up onto the table by the door, and snags a slice of pizza from the box. Amazingly, the entire pizza suffered no ill effects from being dropped onto the floor. "C'mon partner, let's take a walk. You still hungry?" He displays the still-hot slice to his friend, who realizes that he's actually starving again.

Darien's stomach rumbles loudly, and he shakes his head to clear it as he stands up. "What the hell, I could use the air," he replies sourly. He rubs at the back of his head as he walks over to the door. He snags the pizza box from the table and takes it with him out of the lab. Hobbes opens his mouth to say something, but notices the dark look on Darien's face, and instead takes a huge bite out of the slice of pizza in his hand as the door slides shut behind him.

"Now," Claire starts once the door is shut. "Want to tell me what that was all about?"

MacKenna continues staring at the floor, and Claire realizes that the woman is actually embarrassed!

"Well?"

"I'd rather not."

"Tough."

MacKenna closes her eyes for a moment as she tries to figure out how to explain. "I don't know if you noticed the scars on my wrists and palms," she begins.

Claire frowns, and nods. "I was wondering about those," she replies quietly.

MacKenna's eyes open and refocus on the doctor's face. "They're made to look like they're from carpal tunnel release surgery, but the Shop doctors did something so that I could focus a lot of... bioelectrical, energy into my hands..." she pauses a moment as her faces screws up in disgust. "God, it sounds like a line of shit even when I _think_ it!" she exclaims.

Claire rests a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's all right, Amanda. Believe me, I've heard more far-fetched things than this."

"Yeah, I guess you have," is the thoughtfully subdued reply.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're a research doctor, and Darien does that... _thing_... y'know," she shrugs. "He's like, Arnaud."

Claire rocks back on her heels, unsure of how to respond. How much did Arnaud and Stark tell her about the gland?

MacKenna notices her hesitation. "Arnaud and I had a little, 'sharing', session during the flight from Virginia. He told me his version of what'd happened since he'd first gotten involved with, um, the... oh, what did he call it? The... Quicksilver Project?"

Claire opens her mouth to say something, but the other woman seems to sense what she's about to voice.

"Yeah, and he told me about killing Darien's brother; seemed quite proud of it, too. But, he's not one to think things through very much, is he?"

The doctor smiles wryly. "Not well enough, thank goodness."

"Well, anyway, he also said what he did to Darien; and if it weren't for his, visibility problem, I would've thought he was full of it."

"And what would you have done to help him?"

"I dunno," she sighs. "Once I'd rested a bit, he and Mr. Stark wanted me to help him steal your files on this... gland," she hesitates, uncertain about the wording. "Then we would've had more information to help me figure out which neurological interfaces were screwed up during Arnaud's implantation."

Claire doesn't say anything; she just looks questioningly at her. Under that even gaze, MacKenna begins to feel self-conscious. "Y-you're wondering if I'm still out to get those files, aren't you?"

"The thought has crossed my mind."

"Look, I won't say anything to try and set your mind at ease; truth is, I don't know _what_ I'm gonna do anymore." A shadow crosses her face as she begins to brood on her dubious future, and she absently picks at the gauze wrapping around her right hand.

Claire gently but firmly pulls the woman's restless fingers away from the bandages. "Let's just skip that for now, and concentrate on what happened between you and Darien just now."

MacKenna's expression changes as if she's just eaten something sour. "Do we, _have_ to?"

"Yes, we _do_."

She looks at the doctor thoughtfully for a moment, and then moves as if she's going to stand up. Claire rises and helps her up, and MacKenna begins to pace. She stops at the end of the tank and somberly regards the dead fish inside before glancing at the doctor out of the corner of her eye. "Sorry about your fish," she begins contritely.

She hesitates, and Claire presses her. "Never mind that, now. Go on."

She heaves a great sigh. "Like I was saying earlier: the Shop docs operated on my head and my hands quite a bit. I'm not sure if the stuff they installed was mechanical, biological, or some sort of a mix; but it allows me to focus a lot of energy into my hands so that I can, well, 'push' people to do what I want." She pauses a moment to gather her thoughts before continuing. "I only have a certain level of control over this, and I tend to lose it when I get emotional; mostly when I'm ticked off. I'm hyperactive, too; and something they did to me has increased my metabolism so that I continuously generate excess energy. And if I don't expend some of the surplus that ends up building up over a few days, I tend to unconsciously discharge." She looks directly into Claire's eyes. "One time I, set a man on fire," she speaks quietly. It's obvious that the memory is one of her least pleasant ones. She glances away and continues. "I haven't had a chance to discharge since what happened last week at that warehouse, and I didn't know how to do it without your noticing."

Claire opens her mouth to speak, but MacKenna cuts her off. "Look, I wasn't sure how much of this you'd believe; hell, after eight years _I_ still have difficulty believing it myself!" She takes a deep breath before continuing. "Anyway, Darien and Hobbes stopped by to check on us, and we got to talking about why Darien's still so hungry all the time. Hobbes left to do a..." she hesitates as she tries to remember the words he used. "Perimeter check, and Darien stayed to see if I pulled up anything on increased metabolism from my files. He..." she trails off, looking increasingly discomfited.

Claire's brows knit in concern as she notices the other woman's blushing. "Amy, what happened?"

"Um, he... came _on_ to me."

Claire's eyes widen in mild surprise. "How so?"

"He... smelled my hair. And... He couldn't seem to stop... _touching_ me."

Claire's brows then come together as a thought hits her. "I'd better check those results..." she murmurs to herself as she turns to the testing equipment on the other side of the lab. She rips off a few sheets of paper from the dot matrix printer sitting beside the rack of vials on a counter and begins poring over the results.

Back by the fish tank, MacKenna takes a few deep breaths to get her emotions under control before walking up to Claire. She peers around the taller woman's shoulder at the printed results of Darien's blood work. As they read, their eyebrows slowly rise: MacKenna's in surprise and Claire's in worry.

"Am I reading this right?" MacKenna asks in concern. "Are those saying that..."

"Yes," Claire sighs. "His estrogen levels are rising... again." MacKenna shakes her head.

"'Again'? This is a continuing problem for him?"

The doctor nods and turns towards her computer. She strides over and sits in the chair MacKenna had sat in earlier, and clears the screen in order to pull up another document. "I just can't seem to isolate the catalyst behind the gland's interface with his hormonal output," she murmurs as she types.

MacKenna comes over, picks up the test results, and continues reading over them while Claire reads through some of her documentation on the gland. After a few moments, the doctor sighs and shakes her head as she pushes back from the computer. MacKenna looks up from the papers at the sound and frowns thoughtfully. "Have you done any P.E.T. scans?"

Claire tilts her head sideways at the suggestion. "No, why?"

"It might be a good idea to map which areas of his brain are acting up. I bet if you figured out which ones specifically are involved, and link that up with the results of his blood work, you'd have a better idea as to the cause."

Claire blinks in surprise. That makes sense...

MacKenna smiles slightly at the doctor's expression. "You don't have relevant scientific discussions very often, do you?"

The doctor smiles. "Not as often as I'd like," is the amused response. Her face slowly firms, and she turns back to the computer as she waves the other woman closer. "Read this and tell me what your thoughts are," she begins as she opens up a document window. She senses after a few moments that MacKenna hasn't moved, and looks up into the woman's troubled eyes. "What's the matter?"

"Do you really think I should be reading that?"

She pauses to think for a moment, and then shrugs one shoulder. "I need help with this, and there's no one else available with the necessary clearance and experience. And I think you might have a point about your contact with Darien somehow affecting him adversely. So who better to help me out with this than you?"

MacKenna shakes her head in negation. "You're placing way too much faith and trust in me."

"I don't think so. Why else would Arnaud have been so interested in you?"

"Well, not for my classic beauty, _that_'s for sure," is the self-deprecating remark.

Claire shoots her a _'you gotta be shitting me' _look as the lab door clicks and slides open. MacKenna's face braces in preparation of facing Darien again, but Hobbes just pops his head in to the room. The pizza box follows, and he sets it down on the counter next to him.

"He left you half," is the brief comment as he rolls his eyes at his friend's gluttony. "We're about halfway through; check in in about fifteen, okay?"

"Thanks Bobby," Claire replies warmly as she rises and retrieves the box. The lab door slides shut, and she beams encouragingly to the shorter woman. "Still hungry?"

MacKenna's stomach growls in response, and she shrugs and comes over to take a slice. "I hope you guys have a good expense account: 'cause I'll need to eat again in a few hours."


	12. Chapter Twelve

Friday 9:00am

The lab door slides open to allow The Official's and Eberts' entry. The assistant looks particularly put out as the Boss demands, "What's going on with Fawkes?"

Claire and MacKenna look up from some printouts they're poring over, and the doctor responds. "I'm sorry?"

Eberts fills them in. "We just passed him in the hallway, a few moments ago. He seemed rather... unsettled."

The Official nods, with an utterance of "Hm," in agreement.

Claire's face firms in concern, and she carefully hands the file she's holding over to MacKenna, who continues reading where she left off.

Eberts notices that MacKenna's wearing soft cotton gloves on both hands.

And that she's blushing furiously.

The doctor stands and motions for the men to follow her out of earshot from the other woman. "His recent blood work has me a bit concerned..."

"How so?" He utters.

"His estrogen levels are rising again, and it seems that the blocker is losing its efficacy."

"Which is why he's getting moody again," He queries.

"Yes."

"And your solution for this is..."

"That's the problem," she sighs. "I have no solution... for now."

"So we're back at square one," Eberts interjects.

"I'm afraid so."

"Have you told him?" He asks.

She shakes her head and glances askance at the seated woman. "I don't think he's in the state of mind right now to deal with this with a level head."

Eberts glances over at MacKenna, who seems to be completely engrossed with whatever file she's reading. He takes a few tentative steps towards her, just enough to scan the top of the pages for the name of the file. His back stiffens, and he wordlessly begins to sputter as he slowly turns his head back towards his Boss.

The Official notices his reaction out of the corner of His eye, and grunts, "What is it, Eberts?"

"It... It's the..." the assistant falters.

"What?" He barks with increasing impatience.

MacKenna glances up at the tableau behind her, and tilts her head towards Claire in wordless query.

The doctor shakes her head at the other woman as she anticipates the obviously upcoming dispute. Since Eberts is still looking like a fish gulping for water, she answers for him. "It's my notes on the QS9300 project."

The words come like a slap to The Official's face. "_What!_"

She raises her hands defensively. "Before you jump to any conclusions, let me explain..."

He brushes past her (having obviously jumped to a conclusion or two) and bears down on MacKenna. Her expression is the picture of innocence and caution, until he snatches the file from her fingers and roughly shoves it at His assistant's chest. She winces at the pain He causes to her burnt hands, but He's too incensed to notice.

"What did you _do_ to her?" He demands furiously. His hands twitch as if to grab her by the shirt and haul her bodily out of the chair, but He manages to restrain Himself. "Did you..."

Her eyes narrow: she's considering which response would be the most effective with Him. She chooses to be calm and reasonable. "No, sir, I did _not_," she replies quietly.

"You expect me to believe..."

Her face hardens. "Y'know, I really don't care _what_ you believe; but for the record, I do _not_ just 'push' people for the hell of it. This's something I neither like or want to do. But the doctor felt that my knowledge and experience in neuropsychiatry could be helpful with Agent Fawkes' current..." she hesitates briefly, and a disconcerted look washes across her face and disappears. "Condition."

He visibly calms down, but His eyes betray that His anger has crystallized into cold fury. They turn to Claire. "Doctor," He growls menacingly. "You'd better have a _damned_ good explanation for this."

Her expression is inexorable. "Yes. I need help."

He's not mollified. "And this justifies a breach of security? Of this magnitude? With... with..."

MacKenna softly interjects. "A person of questionable loyalties and no clearance?"

His eyes narrow into slits. "_Yes_," He hisses. His gaze hasn't wavered from the doctor's.

"Then let me justify her actions." Her chin rises in challenge, and He turns back to her. Again, The Official's eyes are the only evidence of how dangerous He is when He's provoked.

"Amanda..." Claire begins.

"No," is the quiet reply to the unspoken protest. "He obviously won't believe it coming from you. Please, let me try."

She shrugs and lets it go.

"Take a good look at me, sir," the auburn-haired woman begins. "I'm in no shape to go out there on my own for at least another day or so. The doctor's made that point painfully clear. Meanwhile, one of your men is increasingly losing his grip on reality. I'm talking about Agent Fawkes," she states in an aside as she notices Eberts' questioning look and opening mouth. "I don't know if our, 'confrontation', last week is to blame or if it just aggravated an already existing problem; but it's pretty obvious that his and my abilities act like oil and water. I couldn't live with myself, knowing that I might've permanently screwed up his wiring."

The Official looks perplexed. "I don't follow."

Claire pipes up. "I ran a thorough battery of tests on both Amanda and Darien; my findings suggest that his earlier problem with the gland has been aggravated with his exposure to her... gift."

"How so?"

"We're not sure, yet. But one thing is certain: the gland has increased hormonal production again, and it's getting worse by the day," she replies. "So far, the blocking agent I've manufactured is keeping the levels in check... but just barely."

"That still doesn't justify a breach of this enormity," He retorts.

"It does when I have, at hand, someone intimately versed with the scientific processes that were used to make Amanda what she is now," is the rebuttal as she refers to the still-seated woman.

"Meaning me," MacKenna clarifies quietly.

"If we want to help Darien before things get really out of hand," Claire continues with a weighted sidewise glance at the other woman, "then we're going to have to place a certain level of trust in Amanda's expertise."

"That's not what I have difficulty trusting," is the grim rebuttal.

"But it's not really your call anymore, is it?" MacKenna snaps, and His head jerks around at the tone in her voice. She meets His gaze, her eyes flashing with barely restrained irritation. "Look, a decision's been made; and your time now would be better spent in figuring out what to do next rather than browbeating your employees over minutia."

His face begins to redden, and a vein in His forehead bulges as His blood pressure rises in tandem with His wrath. Eberts gulps as he and Claire automatically take a step back from Him.

MacKenna just sits there, exchanging glares with Him. One of her legs begins to hyperactively twitch.

A tense moment passes, and surprisingly, The Official is the first to break eye contact. He turns His head to a thoroughly astonished Claire. "What are your plans, Doctor?"

She scratches absently behind her ear as she tries to gather her thoughts. "W-well... We..." she shakes her head, "we'll need to run some more tests, and Amanda's given me a few suggestions worth a closer analysis."

He nods. "Eberts, go fetch Fawkes. And have him report to the Lab immediately."

The assistant nods and hastens to the door.

"Oh, and Eberts..." Claire pipes in. He pauses in the open doorway, and she continues. "You might want to have Jerry keep an eye on him, too. I'm concerned that Darien might try something rash in his current frame of mind."

"Understood," the assistant affirms, and hurries down the hall to the stairs.

Fifteen minutes later, a completely unnerved Eberts enters the Lab. His cheeks are flushed, and he's slightly winded. Immediately behind him are Hobbes and Monroe, also with concerned looks on their faces.

Claire, MacKenna and The Official look up from their respective copies of Darien's latest test results, including the films from the P.E.T. scans Claire took the night before.

"What is it?" He asks gruffly.

Eberts has halted a few steps inside the room, and Hobbes and Monroe nudge around him, leaving Jerry standing at attention in the doorway. "He's gone," is the alarmed reply.

"Gone?" Claire asks.

"Gone: vamoose: AWOL: flown the coop," Hobbes verifies. "Jerry saw him leave about twenty minutes ago. Said that Fawkes looked like he had a bug up his butt about something."

MacKenna blushes just as Claire shoots her a knowing look.

"What?" Hobbes glances back and forth between the two women, and Monroe pipes in.

"Whatever's going on between those two, it's making him worse." Claire frowns at her as she continues.

"He made a pass at me in the hall on his way upstairs. He wouldn't back off until I slapped him." She shakes her head at his behavior. "Who knows who else he'll try to get fresh with out there."

"What color were his eyes?" Claire blurts out.

"Normal; no trace of red in them," is the concerned reply. "But it doesn't seem to matter; he's acting almost as bad as if he were QSM."

"So what do we do now? Go after him?" MacKenna asks.

The Official rounds on her. "_You_'re staying put, young lady," He orders firmly before turning back to His agents. "Monroe, did he say anything to you to give you an idea on where he'd go?"

She stills as she considers, and then shakes her head. "He was mumbling something about the difference between being lonely and alone."

"Him and those stupid quotes," Hobbes shakes his head in irritated bemusement.

"Not now," He barks. "We need to get Fawkes back in here _now_, before he does something really stupid to get himself killed... or worse."

"Um," MacKenna begins hesitantly.

"What," The Official rounds on her again imposingly.

Her eyes are cast downwards, her entire posture betraying her uncertainty. She looks up at Him briefly before diverting her gaze to Claire. The doctor nods at the unspoken query, and the woman straightens up in her chair before slowly rising to face Him. "I think I know where he's gone," she replies in a soft tone.

He blinks. A few moments pass in silence before he impatiently demands "So? Out with it, girl! Where's Fawkes?"

She hesitates, and Claire intervenes. "I believe he's gone to confront The Director."

He stills. "Barnes?" His voice quavers ever so slightly.

"If they catch him, they'll torture him," MacKenna murmurs. She once again raises her eyes to meet His.

"You _know_ how They are," she finishes, her voice heavy with emotion.

He nods and speaks over His shoulder at Jerry without disengaging His steely gaze from the diminutive woman. "Jerry, find out where Barnes and his men are. _Now_."

The agent nods and exits the lab without a sound.

"Eberts," He orders. "Assemble the troops. Hobbes, you're leading the recovery team..."

"On it, Boss," is the calm response.

"Monroe, you make sure that _she_," he brusquely indicates MacKenna, "doesn't leave this room. Under _any_ circumstance, capiche? We don't need any more loose cannons running amok here."

She nods and limps over to the door as she loosens her gun in its holster.

"Doctor, have you found a remedy yet for Fawkes' condition?" He addresses Claire.

"Not quite," she replies. "We need some more time..."

"You have two hours," He cuts in. "Is this imbalance still interfering with the counteragent?"

Feeling a little flustered at the strict time constraint placed upon her, the doctor stammers "W-well..."

"Yes," MacKenna interjects. "The excess estrogen is inhibiting re-uptake of this counteragent, which by our calculations means he could go 'pop' pretty soon."

He nods once as He runs His own mental guesstimates. "You'd better get on it then."

Her knees begin to shake, and she sits back down in the rolling chair. She swivels around to the computer and begins typing industriously as Claire shoots a weighted glare at The Official before joining her.

He doesn't notice, since He's already turned His back on them and is striding towards the lab door. As it slides open, Eberts flips his cell phone closed, nods pleasantly at Monroe as he passes her, and trails Him out of the lab en route to His office.

Friday morning, 9:45am

Darien parks his car about a block away from a sleazy dive of a motel, ironically dubbed _The Roaches' Nest_ in spray paint over the actual name (The Rest Inn) on the partially burnt out neon sign at the parking lot entrance. He grunts in pain as a mild seizure momentarily overwhelms him. He smacks the back of his head until the pain subsides, and then turns the rear-view mirror so he can check what colors his eyes are.

No signs of abnormal red yet, but he can feel the 'demon' striving to escape its cage.

'_Oh, well, it's now or never,'_ he thinks acidly. _'Right now, turning into a bloodthirsty psychopath might actually come in handy with these folks.'_ He shrugs at the thought, and cautiously surveys his surroundings before exiting the vehicle. He pulls a pair of sunglasses from the inside pocket of his jacket and put them on as he leisurely strolls across the street to the motel office.

Inside, his nose is greeted with the reek of stale cheap cigars, hashish and B.O. A small clock radio on the counter whispers the dulcet strains of Barry Manilow, and he grimaces more at the choice of music than at the offensive odors.

He walks over to the front desk and looks for the clerk. "Hello? Helloooo, is anyone home?" he calls out.

There's no answer but for a faint rustling from the back room. Darien leans far over the counter to try to get a glimpse of who might be back there, but can only see the wrinkled hindquarters of a mutt way past its prime. He spies the registry book on the clerk's side of the counter and snags it as he lowers himself back down. He opens it to the most recent entries, and is a little surprised to find that Barnes actually signed his own name when he and his crew checked in.

"Guess they like their privacy," he murmurs, as he's noticed that The Director has rented all of the rooms for the next week.

He freezes as he hears a soft scuffing noise behind him, and furtively checks to see who's behind him from the large mirror facing him on the wall to his right. Seeing nothing, he whirls around...

To an empty room.

Unless you count the ancient hound plopping his rear down beside the front door. His milky eyes regard Darien with bemusement for a moment before his head whips around to industriously bite the fleas attacking his butt.

But Darien senses movement from the corner of his eye, and instinctively knows that someone has noticed his presence; someone who is now trying to conceal themself from him. He quickly glances around to see if there are any security cameras or passers-by. Satisfied that there aren't any relevant witnesses, he Quicksilvers and silently glides over to where he noticed the activity.

Unnoticed on his arm, the snake tattoo acquires another two notches of red. Whispering voices intrude on the corners of his mind, and he absently recognizes that he's going to need yet another shot of counteragent soon.

Seeing no one on the other side of the window, he eases around the counter and into the motel manager's office. His nose is assaulted by the sickening sweet smell of cloves and rotting meat, and he spies a pair of feet sticking out from the mostly closed bathroom door on his right.

The manager... it must be.

Darien pinches his nostrils shut and pushes the door open just enough to look inside the bathroom. Yup, it's either the manager or his assistant; dead for probably a day, since there weren't many maggots crawling around the bullet-hole in the young man's forehead. Darien stares at the dead man in horrified fascination before the bile begins to rise from his stomach. He hastily backpedals out of the doorway and makes his way to the back door of the office. He opens it as the Quicksilver falls away from him, and opens his mouth to take a deep breath of fresh air...

As he's hit with the next onslaught of QSM seizures.

Simultaneously, the butt of a gun cracks into the back of his skull, and he slumps to the ground.

oOo

'_Y'know, people really need to stop whacking me in the head,' _Darien muses grumpily as consciousness swims back into focus. _'Doesn't anyone care that I have a gland back there?'_

He realizes that he's sitting propped up in an armchair in one of the motel rooms. All of the shades are drawn in the completely black room, and he can sense that there are several others in there with him.

He unintentionally lets out a soft moan as he shifts in the chair. His head's _really_ starting to pound now.

A light **snickts** on a few feet to his left, and Barnes' face leans into the circle of light. He smiles, and Darien shivers a little at the cold malice in the other man's eyes.

"Ah, Agent Fawkes I presume."

"I'm sorry," Darien speaks huskily. "Don't you mean Dr. Livingston."

Barnes chuckles at the weak attempt at humor, and Darien immediately wishes that he'd stop. It wasn't a very nice laugh, and it grated on his already aching head. He shifts again in the chair, and realizes that his hands and feet aren't bound as he expected them to be. He raises a slightly shaking hand to scrub at his face before massaging the back of his neck. _'I wonder how long I've been out,'_ he ponders absently.

Suddenly he grunts as he's gripped with another seizure… always worse than the last one.

Barnes motions to his men, and the main room lights are switched on to reveal Darien desperately clawing at the back of his skull in an effort to quell the seizures. One of the men steps toward the quivering man in reaction to his suffering, but halts when the Director shakes his head.

Barnes watches Darien in detached amusement as the convulsions ease off.

"What's the matter Agent Fawkes: got a little headache?"

He smiles crookedly. "_Some_thing like that." Calm now, he glances over the rims of his now bent and twisted sunglasses, and the other man catches a glimpse of scarlet and brown eyes.

"Interesting side effect."

"Thanks. Wait a coupla more hours and you'll really get to see some fireworks," is the caustic reply.

Barnes chuckles. "I don't think you'll have to worry about that, Agent Fawkes. In a few hours you'll most likely be dead." He nods almost imperceptibly, and the three Shop agents converge on Darien in his chair.

They align themselves in a semi-circle behind him as the Director rises and approaches him.

"Oh my, are you trying to intimidate me, _Mis_ter Director?" Darien grins.

"No, not really. Just making sure you don't make a break for the door."

Now it's Darien's turn to chuckle. "Now why would I want to do that, and ruin this perfectly fun little playdate we have going?"

Barnes steps closer as the other men grab Darien by the arms and head to restrain him. His smirk widens at the rough handling...

Until he notices that Barnes is pulling a taser out of his pocket. It sparks menacingly as he taps his prisoner between the eyes with the index finger on his other hand.

"Now then, Agent Fawkes; we're going to have a little Q and A session. With every unsatisfactory answer, well, I think you know what I'll be doing with this."

Darien's smile is wiped away as a few hundred volts of electricity rip through his rib cage.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

11:30am, Friday morning

The phone rings, and MacKenna automatically answers it without taking her eyes from the computer screen. "Yeah. Oh, yes, she's right here. Okay, I'll tell her." She hangs up the phone as her gaze swings around to Claire. "You're wanted upstairs."

The doctor frowns as she lowers the latest printout to her lap. "They've found Darien?"

"Mr. Eberts didn't say. He just said that Charlie wanted you in his office… 'pronto.'"

Claire checks her watch as Monroe glances at the clock on the wall. "It hasn't been two hours yet," Monroe comments.

MacKenna shrugs as the doctor rises from her chair and begins to gather her papers together. "'Time is of the essence here, people,'" the seated woman returns in a tone obviously mimicking The Official's.

Monroe grins as Claire steps up behind MacKenna's chair. "Think you can finish this while I'm gone?"

The shorter woman nods. "I have a couple more modifications to make before I run this last simulation," she replies. "But it looks like we've hit the winner here. I should have the final results ready in about ten minutes. You want me to start synthesizing it while you're upstairs?"

"Oh, yes!" Claire blurts out, and whirls around to grab a small vial of pinkish fluid from the rack.

As she turns once again to the lab door, Monroe remarks, "Always helps to have a visual aid with these boys."

As she approaches the door, the doctor replies to MacKenna's question. "Go ahead, but give me a ring before you start." The door slides open, and she stops in the doorway. "Oh, and Amanda?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sure you're getting quite hungry, so I asked Eberts to have one of the men bring lunch down. It should be here any minute now."

MacKenna smiles warmly. "Thanks."

As Claire is hastily opening The Official's office door, the lab door clicks and slides open to reveal an Agency man carrying two large paper bags and a plastic grocery sack filled with drinks. He hands them over to Monroe, who accepts the bags with a few murmured words of thanks so as not to distract MacKenna from her task. The man leaves the room, and Monroe waits for a few minutes until MacKenna leans back in her chair and rubs wearily at her eyes.

"Amanda."

"Hm?" She swings her chair around to face the agent.

"Food's here."

Her stomach growls loud enough to be heard across the room. "Mmm, goody, I'm starving!"

Monroe shakes her head as the shorter woman snags the cane leaning beside her chair and totters over to her. "When _aren't_ you hungry?"

She smiles crookedly. "Only right after I'm done eating. Whatcha got?"

"Looks like sandwiches. And salad," she replies as she lightly rifles through the bags.

"Screw the rabbit food and hand over the meat," is the spirited reply. "Any pastrami in there?"

Monroe rummages through the two paper bags; her hands emerge with two hugely overstuffed sandwiches, some napkins and a large bag of chips. She quickly repacks the one bag with MacKenna's food as well as a couple of drinks from the plastic bag. She hands it over, and the other woman tales it back to her chair at Claire's computer.

MacKenna wolfs down her lunch as she scans over the final incarnation of the formula to regulate the gland's interaction with Darien's hormonal production. She taps a few keys, and moves over to rip off the sheet of paper printing from the dot matrix printer beside her. She absently licks a bit of mustard from her finger as she rises and gathers the necessary chemicals to begin synthesizing the solution.

Monroe watches as she finishes her salad. It still kind of freaked her out that this short little shit could inhale so much food and still be losing weight. She shakes her head a little in awe. "Don't forget you're to call Claire before you start mixing that stuff," she reminds.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, right," MacKenna murmurs. She scoops up the phone and dials a couple of numbers after reading a piece of paper taped to the phone. "Doctor? I'm ready. Okay, thanks." She pauses as The Official makes a comment. "It'll take about twenty minutes 'til the first batch is ready. 'Kay." She hangs up with a small ironic grin.

"What?"

"Men. They're so impatient. Thinks we should've had this stuff synthesized yesterday."

"That's The Official for you," Monroe comments around her napkin. "He's tough, but he means well."

MacKenna's face hardens. "That's what they said about The Director."

"Barnes?"

"No. His predecessor." She looks nauseous from the memories rushing to the fore of her mind.

The agent's eyes fill with sympathy for the younger woman. "Amy, it's all over now," she reassures softly.

MacKenna raises haunted eyes. "No. No, it _is_n't. It'll _never_ be over for me. Not while…" she trails off as she swallows convulsively against the bile rising in her throat.

"What?"

She turns away to the lab equipment and begins mixing the gathered ingredients together. Only the trembling of her hands belies the overwhelming emotions surging through her. "Never mind," her reply is spoken so quietly that Monroe has to strain a little to understand the words. "There's nothing I can do about it in here."

Monroe's face firms. "You're _not_ going after him. Look, honey, we're the professionals. Let us handle this."

MacKenna hunches her shoulders. "As long as The Shop exists, it won't matter who's in charge. MacDougall, The Director, Barnes… they're all the same. And they won't stop until they have me back… one way or another." She begins to shiver as goose bumps break out all over her body. The beaker in her right hand shakes as she **clumps** it down on its stand. She rubs at her bare arms vigorously as she turns and leans on the counter now behind her.

"You're worth _that_ much to them?" Monroe asks in surprise.

Eyebrows rise. "You don't have kids, do you?" she counters harshly.

Monroe's face closes like a wall's slammed down on her inner thoughts. Her eyes glitter as she remembers her beloved James flying away from her in the helicopter. With _that_ woman. "What does _that_ have to do with this?"

MacKenna looks uncertain for a moment. She wasn't expecting _that_ sort of reaction. She shakes off the divergent line of thought and continues. "This project is so important to Them that They murdered _dozens_ of people, including my family, just to ensure its 'integrity'. Hell, I don't even know if my _brother_ is still alive or not!" Her eyes squeeze shut at that agonizing thought, and a tear edges out from the corner of one eye. She clamps down on her surging emotions and grips the edge of the counter behind her, _hard_.

'_Oh shit,'_ she realizes that she's losing control again. That sudden insight, coupled with the dull pain from the flash burns, is enough to distract her from her misery, and her mind races in an effort to figure out what she's going to ground out on. The giant fish tank had been emptied and transferred to another room late last night, with the two surviving fish placed in a smaller tank to hopefully recover from their injuries. It would take too long to fill the large sink at the back of the Keep… _'Where else… where else!'_ She can feel the beginnings of a full-blown panic attack coming on. Her eyes dart around the room, and an idea presents itself to her as they settle on Monroe.

The agent's been talking the whole time, completely unaware of all that's been rushing through the agitated woman's mind. "… this is all over, I'll check with some of my contacts back East. We'll find out where he is, okay? Amy?"

"Hmm?" she smoothes her expression so as not to betray her anxiety.

"I'm sure he's fine."

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For caring. You don't have to, you know."

"Yeah, well, you kinda remind me of someone I used to know," Monroe replies with a small, private smile tinged with an old sorrow.

"This still doesn't change anything with Barnes though. He'll eventually figure out that you guys're harboring me, and then it's bye-bye to your little Agency."

"We're not _that_ easy to destroy," Monroe returns with a feral grin.

"You of all people should know better," MacKenna refutes heatedly as she steps away from the counter towards the other woman. She crosses the room under the pretense that she's getting another drink, and Monroe glances down and rummages around in the plastic bag by her feet as she responds.

"Look, we may not seem like much to you, but that's just what we want the others to think…" Her sentence is cut short as MacKenna firmly clasps her head between burning hot hands.

"I'm sorry Agent Monroe, I really am," the experimental murmurs in regret. "But I can't let you keep me here like this. Barnes slaughtered my husband and my babies, and I'll be _damned_ if I don't return the favor. He's responsible for so much misery, and I _will_ stop him… one way or another."

"If you go after him alone, he'll get you for sure," Monroe replies as if she's in a trance. Which, she _is_.

"Any suggestions?"

"You need backup. At least let me come along to watch your back. And you don't even know where they _are_ yet."

MacKenna pauses as she considers. "All right. But you will not interfere with _any_thing I do from now on, understand?"

Slowly, Monroe nods.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, we'll find out on the way. No matter what happens today, your only concerns are recovering your Agent Fawkes and getting the hell out of there… _safe_ly. Just leave Barnes to me. Anyone else from The Shop is expendable."

"I understand."

"Then tell me in your own words what I just said."

Monroe blinks as she gathers her muddy thoughts. "We find Barnes. I get Fawkes out of there. Kill anyone I have to from The Shop that interferes, but leave Barnes for you to take care of. Watch your back, make sure that no one opposes you, but don't get in your way myself."

MacKenna nods. She's markedly paling form the energy she's exerting. She releases Monroe's head, and the seated agent shakes it to clear her mind.

She glares at the shorter woman standing in front of her as her thoughts come into focus again. "That was a _lousy_ thing to do to me," she almost growls.

"I'm sorry, but I saw no other way," MacKenna replies contritely. Her eyes are sorrowful as she backs away and fetches her cane from the other side of the room. Her gait is noticeably more wobbly, and she sinks into her rolling office chair to rest for a moment.

Monroe watches her as she checks on the antidote's progress. MacKenna shakily turns off the Bunsen burner and uses a pair of tongs to pour the steaming contents of the large beaker into a number of smaller vials waiting in a centrifuge. She caps them and closes the lid to the machine before programming and turning it on. She swivels around to face the agent again, and Monroe notes that the color's already beginning to come back to the other woman's cheeks.

"No seizures this time," she comments flatly.

"No," is the subdued reply. "I've built up a pretty substantial 'charge' since yesterday. I should have a few more 'pushes' in me before the neurochemical buildup becomes toxic."

"You planning on 'pushing' anyone else around today, or am I the only lucky recipient?"

"I said I didn't like 'pushing' people, Agent Monroe," MacKenna sighs. "And I meant it. Would you rather I held all this energy in until I torched something?"

"It's better than what you just did to me."

"Not necessarily." The two women lock gazes, and Monroe watches the tears welling up in MacKenna's eyes. "In one of Their little experiments, They kept me from grounding out for days. And then They sent in one of the delivery guys to rape me." Her green eyes reflect a shadow of the horror playing itself out in her mind. "He went up like crumpled newspaper. You ever see someone burned alive, Agent Monroe?" The tears fall freely now. "He didn't stop screaming, 'til They sent someone in to put a bullet between his eyes."

A few moments pass as the imagery sinks into Monroe's mind. MacKenna drops her gaze and scrubs furiously at her face. "Well, that's it for _that_ stroll down memory lane," she comments huskily. She shoves her feelings down into a tight little corner of her mind as she opens eyes now devoid of all emotion and rises to snatch a pen and note pad from the other side of the computer. She scribbles a few small sentences and props the note on the humming centrifuge.

Monroe rises and tosses the remains of her lunch in the trash can beside the door as MacKenna retrieves her cane and approaches from the other side of the lab.

"Ready?" she nods to the agent, and the women file from the room.

On their way upstairs they run into Jerry and another Agent, and MacKenna 'pushes' the unnamed Agent to take a five minute nap in the hallway while 'pushing' Jerry into telling her where Barnes and Darien are. She then orders the muscular Agent to forget that he ran into her and Monroe just now, and the two women make their way unopposed and unnoticed from the building.

MacKenna quivers from a mild seizure as they turn the corner to the elevator. It doesn't go unnoticed by the female Agent limping slightly beside her.

12:20pm, Friday afternoon

Claire and Hobbes return to the Keep to find Monroe and MacKenna gone, but a note's taped to the centrifuge simply stating: _'12:05- Gone hunting. Synthesis complete in about ten minutes. Try to meet us around 12:30. You should know where. Amy and Alex'_

"Sonofa_bitch_!" Hobbes punches the wall in frustration. "Doesn't _any_one follow orders around here!"

"Not now Bobby," Claire replies worriedly. She checks the centrifuge, and is relieved to see that the antidote's turned out the way that her and MacKenna's calculations predicted. On the computer screen is the latest model predicting the results of the final compound, and the doctor gingerly draws out the purplish liquid from the middle strata in the tubes into a medium-sized syringe. She caps it and places it in a protective case alongside another syringe filled with the familiar blue counteragent.

Meanwhile, Hobbes calls upstairs and notifies The Official of the latest development. He grimaces as he holds the phone away from his ear: BossMan's bellowing on the other end like an enraged bull. Something about why no one sees fit to follow orders around here. And so on, and so forth.

"Yes sir. I know sir. Punk-ass kids. Yes sir. Shutting up sir," Hobbes interjects as he gingerly holds the earpiece as close to his head as he can tolerate.

Claire finishes her preparations and waits impatiently beside him as he listens to The Official's tirade.

It doesn't seem like He'll be winding down anytime soon.

She taps her watch meaningfully, and he shrugs as if saying _'What'm I supposed to do here?' _

In answer, she snatches the receiver from his hand. "Sir, it's Claire. I suggest that you shut up and mobilize the recovery team," she snaps. The voice on the other end falls ominously silent for a moment, and she continues. "Amanda finished synthesizing the antidote before she left, and I have a full dose of the counteragent ready. Bobby and I'll rendezvous with the recovery team outside. What?"

She pauses at His response. "Sir, do you think that's such a good idea? Oh. All right. Yes. We'll see you there." She hangs up the phone with a strange look on her face.

Hobbes watches her quizzically. "What? What is it?"

"He said that he and Eberts are coming along... to coordinate."

"That's fine, long as they don't get in the way," he replies grimly. "You ready? Then let's get a move on."

He checks his pocket for the two extra cases of shells he put there earlier, and she grabs the case with the filled syringes along with her jacket as they rush out of the Lab.

12:15pm, Friday afternoon

Monroe and MacKenna pull up behind Darien's car down the street from the motel. Monroe backs up and parks a couple of spaces away on the other side of the street. The two women scan the area for signs of Shop agents, but there was only a tired hooker sitting in a lawn chair on the corner smoking a cigar.

Monroe checks the ammo in her guns, and MacKenna watches her with a trace of amusement in her eyes.

"I think you missed the Saturday Night Special hidden in your bra," she teases.

"No I didn't," is the bland reply. "And it's in my boot. Everybody always assumes I keep it in my bra," she raises one eyebrow. "That could just be an excuse to feel me up, too." She straightens and reaches over the other woman to the glove compartment. It opens up to reveal MacKenna's knife in its sheath.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise, and she takes it from Monroe's open hand. "Thanks."

"I can't let you go in there unarmed, but I don't trust you with a gun."

"Good, 'cause I can't stand 'em. Mom insisted I learn how to handle a firearm, but she never said I had to like the stupid things."

Monroe glances at her askance. "Military brat?"

She nods. "Yah. But just Mom. Dad was a contractor. Derek took over the business when they died."

Monroe doesn't respond. She figures it's just nervousness talking right now. "Okay, I'm going to check out the office. You stay out of sight in case Barnes has lookouts posted. Anything happens, could you please wait until the reinforcements arrive?" she asks earnestly, knowing what the answer's going to be before it even forms on MacKenna's lips.

The other woman sprouts a small smile full of irony. "I don't think so. I'll scout out the rooms and meet you behind the office. Don't worry about me, Agent Monroe. I ain't some babe in the woods."

"No, you definitely aren't," she murmurs as they get out of the car. MacKenna eases across the street and ducks down a side alley to cross around to the back of the motel.

Monroe glances at the hooker, who saucily winks at her and flashes the peace sign three times. The agent nods at her contact and strolls casually down the sidewalk towards the motel office. There's no notice of the limp from her gunshot wound.

At the corner of Macon and Boulevard she meets up with her second contact, Adams looking every inch the affluent businessman, and they act as if they're meeting for a tryst. They hold hands and nuzzle each other as they make their way into the motel office's front door.

The old hound dog is napping in the same spot Darien last saw him; it's pretty obvious that he's deaf and blind. But his head jerks up at the smell of strange humans, and he takes a few whiffs before disinterest and humidity overcome him again.

The couple lean on the front desk, and Adams rings the bell. When there's no answer, Monroe's forced attitude of simpering paramour fades. She eases around the desk and freezes when she catches the pungent aroma of decomposing management. Adams looks at her questioningly for a moment, and then the odor wafts over to him... momentarily causing his eyes to water. And they weren't even in the back room yet.

She pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket and holds it to her face as she loosens her primary gun in its holster. Adams follows suit as he shadows her into the back room. They come across the dead manager, and follow in Darien's footsteps to the back door. She signals for him to cover her as she cracks the door open to peek outside...

Only to smack up against MacKenna trying to open the door from the other side. The wicked tip of the knife pricks Monroe's throat before she can get the barrel of her gun up.

It's immediately retracted as MacKenna recognizes whom she's threatening. "Jesus, what took you so long?" she whispers testily. "I was beginning to think..." she trails off as she catches the scent of au de stiff from inside the office. "Holy shit, that's odious!" She backs up a few steps to allow the other two to get out and shut the door on the stench.

She sneezes violently, and Monroe jerks away as the knife swishes by a few inches from her side. "Hey, watch it!"

"Oh. Whoops, sorry," she apologizes contritely, and carefully sheathes the razor-sharp blade in the small of her back. "What was I saying? Oh, yeah, I found them." Her mouth snaps shut as she shoots a searching glare at Adams. "Who the hell're _you_?"

"Adams," Monroe replies evenly. "He's okay. Now where are they?"

MacKenna continues to glare at the man for a few tense moments before relaxing a bit and focusing on the taller woman. She jerks her head back and to her left. "Room Twelve. Looks like there's five of 'em, including Barnes and Noble."

She freezes and blinks, as the names put together distract her train of thought for a moment. But then she shakes her head and continues. "Eleven and Thirteen have inside doors connecting to it, so we might be able to surprise them by coming in from all sides. What do you think?"

Monroe considers the suggestion. "It's better than just charging in the front door and getting mowed down," she replies thoughtfully. "Adams, you take Eleven. Amy..."

"I've got point," she butts in.

"No way. They'll cut you in half before they realize it's you."

She shakes her head. "Barnes'll expect me to try something suicidal. He knows I won't let them take me alive."

"But he can't be anticipating you to show up here."

"Oh yes, he is. That man is prepared for everything. I have yet to see him surprised by a sudden change in plans."

Monroe scrutinizes her for a few moments, and then makes her decision. "Fine. Barnes doesn't know about Adams, so that'll give us an element of surprise. Just, please be careful."

MacKenna smiles softly before turning towards their target. "I always am," she murmurs.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Meanwhile, in Room Twelve, Darien's roughly awakened by the bitter stench of smelling salts. "_'Chew!_" he sneezes violently, and grimaces as it comes back to him why he passed out in the first place.

He hurt. _Every_where.

'_Feels like I got licked by a lightening bolt... again,'_ he ponders as he groans in agony.

"Now, now, Agent Fawkes," Barnes' voice grates on the lanky man's eardrums. "It does you no good trying to escape that way."

"Who said I was trying?" he grumbles, and then coughs from a dry throat.

"Some water?" he hears that smarmy little guy ask... what was his name? Noble?

He cracks open scarlet eyes, but they can't seem to focus quite right. Someone approaches him carrying something, but everything looks like a TV screen does when the vertical's off: all wavy and weird. It was beginning to make him nauseous.

"Y'know, I might be willing to cooperate more if you stopped zapping me so damned much," he grates out.

"Or, you'd cooperate more knowing that I won't," Barnes counters as he steps up once again with the taser. "A few more jolts from this will kill you, you know."

"And that's supposed to scare me into talking? 'He don't know me very well, do he?'" Darien quips to the disinterested Shop agent on his right.

"Hm. Maybe not," is the thoughtful reply. "Guess we'll just have to switch to another method of questioning." He looks expectantly at his assistant, who nods, sets down the full glass of water he's carrying, and fetches a medium-sized satchel from the other side of the room.

"Whatever it is, it won't work," Darien retorts with a grin. "You see, right now I'm just the tiniest bit psychotic; and I couldn't care less what methods of torture you wanna use on me. 'Cause at this point, I really don't give a god-damn. Go ahead," he gingerly laces his hands behind his neck and cradles his head, ignoring his body's screaming protests to the movement. "Do your worst... or best; 'cause I'd rather kill you than tell you stupid bastards anything at this point." His grin widens ruthlessly as he sees that he's hit somewhat of a nerve.

Barnes' face tightens in anger. He purses his lips as he considers his options. "Well, I guess this means that our 'little playdate' _has_ come to an end then." He motions for his three agents, and they haul Darien roughly out of his chair.

"What, checking out so soon?" he taunts around the searing agony washing over his body.

"No, but you are," Barnes replies grimly. He pulls out his firearm and aims it at Darien's heart...

Suddenly there's a knock on the door.

Barnes frowns in consternation for a moment, and then the look fades into one of anticipation. "She took her sweet time in getting here," he comments over his shoulder to Noble.

The assistant nods, and cautiously approaches the door.

Barnes turns and aims at a spot over Noble's shoulder as the door is opened, while the three Shop agents hustle Darien towards the back of the room.

Before the door is fully opened, Noble is suddenly jerked through the doorway. He begins to shout in surprise and alarm, but his cry ends in a wet gurgle as Barnes sees a flash of steel before the door clicks shut.

"Amand_aaaaaa_!" he shouts in fury as he opens fire.

As his men release Darien and draw their weapons, the two connecting doors crash open to reveal Adams and Monroe. Their guns flash, and one by one, the Shop agents begin to drop.

Barnes dives for cover beside the bed. He watches an agent of his go down on one knee and draw a bead on Adams, but the man is thrown off balance as one of Monroe's bullets rips into his chest. He seems to crumple to the floor in slow motion as a second Shop agent returns fire at her. She dives for the protection of the connecting wall between the rooms just as Adams leans around his doorsill and shoots the man in the back of the head. The third Shop agent edges towards the front of the room to protect Barnes, and Adams darts into the room as Monroe covers him with another round of shells.

Seemingly oblivious to the gunplay surrounding him, Darien has managed to shakily pull himself up into a crouch. As he leans on the arm of a chair to finish his ascent into verticality, Adams rushes to his side and practically hurls him through the connecting door into Room Thirteen.

"_HEY_!" Darien begins, but is cut off as Adams slams the door shut.

Meanwhile, the final Shop agent has reached Barnes, and keeps Monroe occupied as he hauls The Director through the front door of the room. Adams drops to one knee and begins to shoot, but is rewarded with empty 'click's. He curses as he rapidly exchanges the empty clip for a full one, and Monroe squeezes off a few shots before her gun is emptied as well.

Adams looks up to draw a bead on his quarry, but they've already escaped through the door. "Shit!" He turns and looks to Monroe, who is half kneeling in the doorway to Room Eleven. "You okay?"

She nods, and moves to rise. The too-sudden movement yanks at the half-healed wound in her leg, and she stifles a curse as she makes her way into the devastated room. She drops her empty clip into her pocket and reloads as she scans the room. She shoots Adams a searching look as she makes her way to the closed door to Room Thirteen. "Fawkes?" she asks him.

"Should be fine," he replies as he kneels and checks the fallen Shop agents for signs of life. Monroe waits for a moment, and he shakes his head. "Dead."

She nods again. "Let's grab Fawkes and get the hell out of here."

"What about..." Adams begins, but is interrupted as shouting suddenly erupts, along with gunfire, from Room Thirteen.

"Fawkes!" Monroe shouts, and bolts for the front door as Adams wrenches at the connecting door. She skids to a stop in a small puddle of blood on the sidewalk in front of the room just in time to see Barnes hastily retreating from the next room that Adams had thrown Darien into. The third Shop agent's shouts of alarm and anger are abruptly cut off by the sound of a heavy object, more than likely a chair, crashing onto him.

"How do you like _that_, cocksucker!" Darien shouts gleefully. "Doesn't feel so good on the receiving end, does it!"

"Barnes!" Monroe barks as she aims at his heart.

He whirls around and immediately begins shooting at her. She jerks backwards in reaction as she fires her own gun, and she slips on the puddle of blood. She continues to fire as she falls, but the bullets fly wildly, and Barnes keeps shooting as he runs down the sidewalk towards the main street. One of his bullets strikes the gun from her hand as another grazes her shoulder. Monroe grunts as she thumps onto the sidewalk, and shakes her hand to get the feeling back. Her shoulder begins to burn as the blood trickles down her arm, and her leg blares its protest at the overexertion.

Adams yanks at the connecting door, but it's somehow jammed shut.

He throws his shoulder into it a few times, and then karate-kicks it twice before the deadbolt twists enough for the door to crash open. He swiftly draws his gun and scans the room for enemies...

But for the crumpled body of the third agent lying amidst the shattered remains of a desk chair, the room was empty.

No Fawkes.

And no Barnes.

"Adams!" Monroe calls from outside.

He cautiously surveys the room a second time before replying. "Room's clear!"

"Where's Fawkes?"

He makes his way to the open front door. "Gone." He scans the parking lot, and notices a small group of people rushing towards them. "Reinforcements' here," he comments as he kneels down to check her injuries.

12:40pm, Friday afternoon

Darien still can't get his eyes to focus right. Even invisible, his vision is all blurry and wavy, and the floor seems to sway and twist underneath his feet like a boat on choppy water. His stomach gurgles its protest, and he swallows against the bile attempting to rise into his mouth.

"Not now," he states in a firm voice to his roiling tummy.

It ignores him, like everything else in his life does.

_Shut your pie-hole, Fawkes. Go invisible like the good little rat you are, and... maybe... you'll get a shot. If you don't screw up and disappoint us. Which you'll somehow manage to do anyway._

"_You_ shut up," he mutters to the voices in his head. "I'll deal with you later, Charlie-boy. Right now we need to worry about Amy."

_Why? What'd she ever do for you?_

"Let me know I wasn't alone," he replies as he opens yet another connecting door. He absently notes that he's moved through three rooms with no sign of either MacKenna or Barnes.

"Gotta be coming to the end of this place soon," he comments to a wall sconce beside the door. He limps through the room and places his hand on the knob of the next door, but hesitates when he hears voices. He places his ear to the door to better hear what's being said on the other side.

12:42pm, Friday afternoon

After making sure that Monroe was all right, Hobbes leaves her in Claire's masterful care. The Official orders all of the men to fan out in teams of two and search the area in a two-block radius starting from the motel, but Hobbes sets off on his own search path.

"Bobby..." Claire stops him. He twists around on his heel, eager to go find his friend.

"What?"

She holds out the case, and his face brightens in understanding. "Thanks, Keep. I've got it from here." He spins around and rapidly strides down the sidewalk, following the almost unnoticeable trail of blood on a hunch. The Official and Eberts watch him go, their unease apparent in their posture and expressions.

"Be careful, Robert," Eberts calls out.

The stocky agent waves absently over his shoulder, his attention already hyperfocused on the task at hand as he lowers his thermal-vision goggles over his eyes.

12:46pm Friday afternoon

Darien listens to the conversation on the other side of the door. Amy sounds terrified. His emotions surge in response, and he begins to turn the knob of the connecting door.

But the main door to the room opens, and Hobbes' profile is backlit from the brilliant sun outside. His gun sweeps the room in tandem with his gaze, and he freezes when he spies Darien's Quicksilvered outline in the room.

"Fawkes, what the hell're you doing?" he calls out, but is cut short when his partner rapidly strides across the room and clamps an invisible hand over his mouth. He shivers at the subzero touch, and automatically bats Darien's arm away.

"_Shhhhhhh_," Darien hisses in his ear. "You'll spook them."

"Fawkes," he begins in a normal voice, but he sees the hand come closer to his face. "Fawkes," he murmurs, "What's going on here? Why'd you run off like..."

"Amy's next door," is the whispered response. "With Barnes. And his dillhole assistant, I think," he finishes with a grimace.

"She can deal," he replies tersely. "Right now you got some medicine coming." He pulls out the case with the blocker and counteragent from the inside of his jacket with one hand as he snags his partner's arm with the other hand, encased in a glove. "Y'know, this'll go a whole lot quicker if you dropped the see-through act."

Darien shakes off Hobbes' tightening grip. "Robert, this isn't the time! Did you hear what I said? Amy's in the..."

"Next room with Barnes and his dillhole assistant, I know," he paraphrases. "And you can help her if you let me give you these shots." He tries to catch his arm again, but Darien backs away a few steps.

"You can't stop me, Robert," he purrs menacingly.

Hobbes draws his gun and aims it at his partner's chest. "Don't make me do this Darien."

The Quicksilver falls away, showing Darien with a feral grin on his face. He hunches his head and shoulders as he steps up to Hobbes and leans into the barrel of the gun. "Go ahead, finish what he started," he murmurs. "He was getting ready to shoot me anyway when Amy knocked on the door."

Hobbes hesitates, and runs his gaze assessingly over the taller man. "_Je_sus, Fawkes, what did that bastard _do_ to you?" he breathes as he notices the sorry state of Darien's singed and ripped shirt.

"I believe its called torture, my friend. Feels worse than it looks, so I hope you'll understand why I'm not in much of a touchy-feely mood," he grins mirthlessly before turning serious. "Look, Amy risked her life to save me. I _owe_ her, Bobby. Let me repay the favor; then you can give me those shots. Whatta ya say?" He looks over the rims of his ruined sunglasses at his partner, and Hobbes slowly drops his gun before holstering it.

He shakes his head. "Someday Fawkes, I'm gonna decide that shooting you is better than doing what you want."

"C'mon, you like seeing me this nuts," is the smooth response. "It's nice to have someone crazier than you; gives you some spice and variety in your day."

"I want spice and variety, I'll get it in my diet," Hobbes retorts. "As for insanity, you just keep getting your shots, and let me be the expert there." He checks the rounds in his gun, closes it up and looks evenly at his friend. "What's the plan?"

Darien straightens and claps Hobbes on the shoulder. "Awright. We know Amy nailed the little guy..." he trails off as he tries to recall the Shop assistant's name.

"Noble," Hobbes interjects.

"Noble, right," Darien nods, and continues. "She hurt the little guy bad from what I saw, so we've only got Barnesie to worry about. I say we kick the front door in and gun the bastard down."

"_That_'s original," Hobbes mutters.

"What?"

"I ain't giving you a gun the way you are now," he replies.

Darien smiles as he pulls out a Glock tucked in the waistband of his pants at the small of his back. At Hobbes' dismayed look, he elaborates. "Swiped it from the guy I clobbered with the chair," his grin widens.

Hobbes sighs as he turns around. "I _really_ need a vacation."

12:40pm, Friday afternoon

The front door to the room jerks as Hobbes and Darien assault it.

Barnes flicks his gaze at it to see if the dresser that he slid in front of it's holding.

With each resounding blow, the already battered piece of furniture shudders, and he knows that it's a matter of seconds before the whole thing collapses in on itself. He returns his attention to the terrified woman in front of him.

His eyes are cold and filled with malice. His gun points unwaveringly at her heart.

"Go ahead, let's get this over with," she growls.

"Oh no, I have something much more enjoyable in store for you," he replies with a shark-like grin.

Her eyebrows furrow, and then a slow, feral smile spreads across her face. "We're almost through with the final phase of the experiment, aren't we?"

He shakes his head in bemusement. "You always were too smart for your own good," is the smug reply.

Her smile disappears. "So what now?"

He shrugs. "Transport you to our facility here in San Diego; and, the rest depends on you."

"How so?"

"If you show willingness to cooperate, my superiors might be able to secure you a permanent position within our organization."

"Sounds like fun. There's just one problem."

He frowns. "What?"

The door shudders again as it begins to splinter from the force of the blows.

The savage grin reappears, and her green eyes glitter in anticipation. "You'll be dead before your backup arrives." Her body tenses as she prepares to leap at him.

His finger tenses on the trigger. "I don't think so," he replies smugly.

She continues to grin as she rushes towards him.

_'Oh well,'_ he mentally shrugs. _'Now or later, it won't make much of a difference.'_ He pulls the trigger on his gun, and is rewarded with an empty '**_click_**'. His eyes widen in disbelief, and he vainly squeezes the trigger three more times before MacKenna is upon him. She bowls him over with the force of her charge, and she clips him twice in the face as they go down. He tries to ward off her fists, and abruptly her fingers slide around his throat. Her thumbs find his Adam's apple, and she squeezes with every ounce of strength in her body.

Realizing that he has moments before his air supply runs out, he repeatedly rams the butt of his gun into the side of her head.

She grunts, blinks, and grins even more fiercely. She plops her rear down on his chest... _hard_... and the rest of the air in Barnes' lungs is forcefully expelled. As he lies momentarily stunned, she pins his arms down with her knees, re-centers her thumbs on his windpipe, and throttles him with all her might.

"Bye-bye, Barnesie," she grits out between clenched teeth. "Die quick and rot." The half-healed bullet wound in her right arm is screaming from the strain, and she can feel the strength ebbing from that hand.

She bites her lip and tries to ignore the pain as she ekes every last ounce of energy into strangling the life out of him. Her efforts are rewarded, as the man's movements become sluggish and uncoordinated before his eyes unfocus and his body goes completely limp.

Just then, the door splinters as Darien and Hobbes' feet crash against it.

MacKenna doesn't seem to notice it, or even to care.

"Again. Ready? One... two... three!" Hobbes' voice commands, and the door finally crashes open. The two agents rush in. Hobbes quickly scans the room with his gun at the ready, and Darien's reddened gaze immediately fixes on MacKenna and Barnes on the other side of the room. He straightens up and grins savagely as he notes that Barnes is unconscious and moments away from death.

"That's my girl," he murmurs with pride.

"Amy, _NO_!" Hobbes rushes over and tries to pull her off of the Director, but he can't seem to make her hands budge. So he attempts to reason with her. "Amy, this can't be the only way. You're not a murderer."

Green eyes raging with all of the pain and horror of the past eight years turn to him. "I am what they made me," she pants.

"You are what _you_ want to be," he returns fiercely. "Don't sink down to his level; you'll become just like him!"

Her stormy eyes begin to clear. "I'm _not_ like him. I'm not like _any_body. He _can't_ do this to anyone else; I won't _let_ him."

"Killing him's not the answer," is the heated reply. "It won't matter how many Barnes' you kill; there're a hundred more like him just waiting for the chance to take you down."

His reasoning begins to sink in, and her hands relax. The fierce sparkle in her eyes fades, and she looks at him dully. "But... I'm so _tired_. I-I don't think I can run anymore."

Unnoticed by the two, Darien's stepped up behind his partner. He kneels down beside them and casually glances at Barnes. _'Damn, bastard's still breathing,'_ he absently notes. He rests his hand on MacKenna's arm, which gains her attention. He gently runs a finger down to her hand and traces her fingers, leaving a tiny trail of sparks that raises the hairs on her arm.

"You're the one with the magic fingers, remember?" he hints. "What better way to get your revenge than to use their own experiment _on_ 'em?"

She blinks, and frowns. The repeated blows to her head are taking their toll.

In the corner, Noble groans as he begins to rouse.

"Bobby, why don't you check on him; I've got it here," Darien suggests smoothly. His face is unreadable as he gazes intently at MacKenna.

Hobbes hesitates as he weighs his options: ignore the assistant and risk any number of nasty confrontations, or briefly attend to the injured man while leaving his QS-meshuggenahed partner unattended with an equally unstable chick...

Not very good choices, my friend.

"Don't kill him," he warns as he rises and crosses the room.

Darien smiles beatifically. "Nope, just the next best thing." He gently guides MacKenna off of Barnes and helps her sit down on the floor beside the unconscious man. He slides a supportive arm around her shoulders as he murmurs suggestions in her ear.

Hobbes uneasily glances over his shoulder at the two experimentals. It's like he's turning his back on two savage predators, even though one of them he considers his best friend. He checks the knife wounds on Noble's throat and upper torso; none of them seem life threatening, although the man has lost quite a lot of blood. The assistant stirs, mumbling incoherently in his distress.

_'Hm, must still think Amy's got 'im,'_ Hobbes wonders. He glances around his immediate vicinity, snags the corner of a bed sheet and rips it into strips to begin bandaging the worst of the cuts. Noble mutters and stirs for a few more moments before lapsing back into unconsciousness.

On a hunch, Hobbes pulls out his handcuffs and carefully secures the assistant's hands behind his back. He then turns to check on his partner.

He's still seated, with his arms in a light embrace around MacKenna's shoulders. She's slumped against him, and he's resting his chin gently on the top of her head as he readjusts his legs to a more comfortable position in a loose semicircle around her. Hobbes edges around to get a frontal view of them, and Darien's now-silver eyes snap open to glare a warning at him. He's struck with the parallel image of an animal protecting its young. Or an injured mate.

Then he notices the muzzle of the Glock his partner swiped from the Shop agent he'd nailed with the chair, and it was pointed right at his heart.

_'Better step easy with this,'_ he thinks as he slowly hunkers down and shows his empty hands in a peaceful gesture. "How you doin', partner?" he asks softly.

"She's exhausted. I need to get her out of here."

"Why don't you let Claire take a look at her?"

"No. No more doctors. She's been through enough." He protectively gathers her closer to him, and she murmurs incoherently at the movement. "_Shhhhhh_," he soothes as he smoothes the hair back from her face and softly kisses the top of her head. She subsides and reverts to a state of semi-consciousness.

"Fawkes," Hobbes presses. "She most likely has a concussion. Look at the blood on her head," he urges.

"Saw it. I've got it under control, Robert," is the steely response.

"Darien, you know what it's like to have a concussion. If you let her fall asleep now, she could slip into a coma," Hobbes argues. "You don't want that to happen, do you?"

"I'm okay," her voice drifts out faintly from the confines of Darien's arms. MacKenna shifts, and Darien reluctantly loosens his hold on her so she can sit up straight. Her face is gray, and her body shivers imperceptibly, but her gaze is lucid as she looks at Hobbes.

"Can you stand?" he asks.

"No, that last one took everything I had," she replies with a strange note in her voice. She stares emptily at Barnes' immobile form.

Hobbes' stomach clenches as he's suddenly filled with dread from what her comment infers. The fresh blood staining the entire front of her shirt didn't help that feeling at all, either. "What do you mean by that?"

"Darien had the right idea," she replies. "Best revenge is to use their own experiment on 'em."

"I don't follow."

"She 'pushed' Barnes," Darien answers smugly.

"How do you know it worked?"

"I ordered him to wake up, and he did," she returns. "When I was done, I told him to pass out again for a few hours or so, and so..." she weakly waves at the prone Director.

"Seizures?"

"Oh, yeah," her eyelids flutter as she struggles to retain awareness. "You didn't notice?"

He glances at Noble, who's also still out cold. "Was kinda busy patching him up," he nods at the man.

She follows his gaze, and smiles unrepentantly. "She slices, she dices..."

"...And she juliennes," Darien echoes her grin with pride.

"'But when the wit began to wheeze, And wine had warm'd the politician, Cur'd yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician.'" Her voice fades over the course of the quote as consciousness finally slips away, and her head lolls against Darien's shoulder.

"Hmmm," he thinks aloud, and then smiles beatifically as he places it. "Prior."

His levity fades as he hears voices approaching the front door to the room. "Time to makes ourselves scarce," he states grimly as he rises with MacKenna cradled in his arms.

They both begin to Quicksilver, and Hobbes absently notes that once again there are no sparks between the two. Must have something to do with how charged up she is. Or isn't.

Before Darien can realize that he's turned his back on Hobbes, he flinches as his neck is suddenly pricked by a hypo's needle. The rapid-acting sedative overwhelms him before he can take two steps towards the door, and his legs fold under him. His last conscious effort is to pitch MacKenna's limp form onto the safety of the bed as his partner catches and eases him the rest of the way to the floor.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

9:00am, Monday morning

There's a knock on Darien's apartment door, and he musters enough energy to call out, "It's open!"

At first nothing happens, and then the door opens enough for Hobbes to pop his head through. "You decent?"

"No, but I'm dressed," he replies dryly from the depths of the couch.

"He must be feeling better," Monroe's voice drifts through the door. "He's starting to sound like you again."

Hobbes grimaces, and swings the door open fully to reveal two Agency men guarding either side of the door. "Feeling up to some visitors?"

Darien glances at the bed, but MacKenna doesn't stir. Despite Claire's protests, he'd insisted that she would rest much easier someplace other than the lab. _Any_where but the lab. And he was right.

But Claire and The Official had made some stipulations: guards at the apartment 24/7, and regular checks by Claire at six-hour intervals.

Just in case.

"_Especially in regards to that concussion of hers,"_ Claire had said. _"You're going to have to keep a close eye on her for the next twenty-four hours; and you **will** call me if you notice **any** change in her behavior."_

"Yeah, but keep it down," he replies in an undertone. "She's still sleeping." He gingerly heaves himself up to more of a sitting position as Hobbes, Monroe, Claire, Eberts and The Official ease into the small flat.

Monroe limps over to the chair next to the couch and carefully lowers herself into it with a small sigh as she takes her weight off of her still-aching leg. Her right hand is still stiff from having her gun shot out of it Friday afternoon, and the edges of one of those extra large Band-Aids peeks out from the cap sleeve of her red t-shirt.

She nods at MacKenna's slumbering back. "How's she doing?" she murmurs.

Darien shrugs slightly as Claire gives him the umpteenth-over. "Still sleeping a lot, but getting stronger. She even walked to the bathroom this morning."

Claire grips his shoulder firmly enough to make him wince. "I thought I _told_ you two to wait until I got here this afternoon to try that."

He shoots the doctor a pained puppy-dog look, and her grip eases minutely. "She won't use that bedside potty thing. Can you blame her?"

"Yes, e_spec_ially when she's not supposed to be walking yet," is the stern rebuke. "Neither of you are strong enough yet to keep from getting hurt if she falls."

"Claire..."

"Don't you 'Claire' me," she snaps.

"Claire, would you keep your voice down," he chastises her softly as he raises a finger to his lips. He winces again as his chest screams in pain from the slight movement, and the doctor gently rests her hand over his in acknowledgement.

"Sorry," she apologizes in a subdued voice. "You two _must_ take it easy, Darien, or it'll take even longer for you to get better. Not counting your other injuries, with three broken ribs and four cracked, you're not exactly in any shape to be helping out another invalid."

"I know, I know," he concedes. He looks up at his Boss. "What's the latest on... you know."

The Official moves closer to the rear of the couch so He can keep His voice down. Eberts shadows Him as he pulls a paper from the manila file tucked under his arm.

"Current reconnaissance shows that The Director and what's left of his men has returned to Virginia," the assistant begins. "They have apparently ceased all efforts to find Miss MacKenna, and the most recent report states that he has been quite busy destroying all the documentation for what appears to be various projects." He pauses a moment to smile in private triumph before wiping his face clean of emotion and continuing with his report. "As for Mr. Stark and Monsieur de Fehrn, their last known position was near de Fehrn's ranch in Mexico."

"Aw, we must've worn them out," Monroe pouts. "I guess we play too rough for them."

"Either that, or their membership in the country club called Chrysalis got revoked," Hobbes teases.

"So now what?" Darien breaks in. His voice is heavy with conflicting emotions, and his eyes are dark with distress.

"What?" Hobbes queries.

In wordless answer, Darien simply nods his head towards his bed and the slumbering woman in it.

"To put it another way, he's asking how you can make it work for me to stay," MacKenna's voice faintly drifts over to them.

All eyes turn to her as she rolls over to face them. She's dressed in Darien's barfly t-shirt, an unbuttoned dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of button-fly boxer shorts. Her eyes are bloodshot and her coloring still pale, but it's obvious that her convalescing in Darien's apartment is agreeing with her.

She shifts her weight and slowly props herself up on one elbow as Darien's face brightens at seeing her awake. She looks at each of the assembled before grinning faintly. "Well, hail hail, the gang's all here. Again."

Hobbes and Monroe smile at the memory of MacKenna saying the exact same thing what seemed like months ago in Claire's lab. Eberts frowns for a moment before his face clears in understanding as he places the memory that her comment rouses.

The Official smiles the tiniest bit.

Darien notices. "Well, if you can make the Boss smile, you _must_ be in," he comments drolly as he glances at Him from the corner of his eye. BossMan wipes all emotion from His face as He shoots a quelling glare at His lanky agent. Darien just smiles and looks back to MacKenna.

Claire has moved to her side and is helping her to sit up by propping the bed pillows behind her back. That finished, the doctor then briefly checks a small bandage on her shoulder blade. She then perches on the edge of the mattress at the bottom of the bed while her patient gets her breath back.

"_Mister_... Eberts?" MacKenna asks, inquiring how he wishes to be addressed. He nods his approval with her choice, and she continues. "Did those account numbers pan out?"

He beams with excitement as he flips through the pages of his pocket notebook. "As a mater of fact, yes. All three were located exactly where you said, and the necessary steps have been carried out in order to acquire them."

"You did..." she infers with a hint of worry in her eyes.

"Yes, all necessary precautions and measures have been taken," The Official reassures her. He nods at His assistant, who echoes his Boss' action.

"Never fear, Miss MacKenna," he begins.

"Underdog is here," Hobbes murmurs to himself.

"Ooo, where is she?" Darien glances around in mock excitement.

"In my pants, where else?" is the glib reply.

"No one will be able to trace the transfers to their final location," Eberts finishes, pointedly ignoring Hobbes and Darien's comments.

Darien suddenly frowns in puzzlement. "Um, am I missing something here?"

"You don't remember?" MacKenna asks. She tilts her head to one side.

"Remember what?"

"It was your idea," she replies with a frown of her own.

"_What_ was my idea?" he snaps. Her head rears back at the vehemence in his voice, and Claire places a calming hand on her knee as she shakes her head.

"Darien has very little memory of what happened at the motel," the doctor explains. "Give him some time; it will all come back within the next few days."

MacKenna nods as Monroe explains. "While you two were working over The Director, you apparently came up with the idea that since you two were 'pushing' him into destroying everything connected with... _that_ experiment," she gestures at MacKenna, "Then all the money they had allotted for it would have a much better home... with us." She grins in appreciation of his deviousness, and Darien blinks at the implied compliment.

She continues. "So Amy had him disclose the account numbers, of which she gave to Eberts soon after she woke up."

Hobbes perks up a little. "And just how much money have we 'inherited' from this little excursion?" he inquires innocently.

"Enough to keep us in the black for quite a number of fiscal quarters," Eberts smirks as only he can do.

"Which means..." Darien asks pointedly.

"Which means that we are more than capable of procuring and fully training another operative for our Agency," The Official replies with a sanguine look at MacKenna. He seems ready to burst with self-satisfaction.

"_And_ get her acclimated to what changes there've been over the past eight years," Hobbes interjects. In an aside to the boss, he asks, "Would there possibly be anything in the budget for a tiny… a miniscule adjustment to my salary as well?"

"Don't push your luck, Bobby," The Official grumbles, causing the seasoned agent to grimace. Oh well, it was worth a shot…

"I certainly could use some, _experienced,_ assistance in the lab," Claire pipes in with her two cents.

"I appreciate the offer," is the soft response. "Would I be able to get back to you on that?"

"What?" Claire asks. "Hm?" The Official grunts. "What do you mean?" Hobbes blurts out.

Monroe watches MacKenna with understanding. "I think she'd like to find her family first," she replies gently.

The auburn-haired woman smiles gratitude at her as she fishes a piece of paper from her purse. "I found out where he is," she states as she carefully hoists herself out of the chair and limps over to the bed. She hands the paper to MacKenna, who hesitates a moment before taking it with a shaking hand.

"_Thank_ you."

Darien's face falls as he realizes that they're talking about MacKenna's brother. "So, what're you gonna say to him?"

Her eyes fill with sorrow, making her look ancient. "Nothing." She blinks away tears threatening to develop. "I just wanna _see_ for myself that he's all right." She looks down and reads the address information on the paper. "Hm. He's living at Gramma's old place." Unbidden, a tear falls from her cheek to the slightly shaking paper, which brings her out of her reverie. She self-consciously dashes the rest of the tears from her face, and tucks the paper in the breast pocket of the dress shirt. She looks up again at the others, and notices their varying expressions of uncertainty.

"After all these years of thinking me dead, it won't do Derek any good knowing it was all a lie. And even though Barnes' destroying everything linked to the Project, there's still the possibility of someone figuring out what's happened with me. My brother's safer living as he is. I'm just glad he's alive... _and_ okay. But Agent Hobbes... _Bobby_," she corrects herself with a little grin for the stocky man. "Is right: I need time to get used to how things have changed... out here," she waves at the window. "And I want to see with my own eyes that my brother's okay." She swallows hard as she locks eyes with Darien. The past few days they've spent recuperating in his apartment have been full of conversation: essentially the sharing of their respective life stories. They've found that they have a lot more in common than they thought, with one thing being that the both of them are magnets for getting themselves into trouble.

"'Lord, they know not what they do,'" Darien quotes in an allusion to his Boss and co-workers' invitation to MacKenna joining The Agency. She grins, and the others in the room develop varying expressions of confusion at the private joke between the two experimentals.

Darien's closing thought:

"At some point in our lives, we all feel alienated from the world... alone... like there's no one out there who could ever understand what we're going through. And no matter what the circumstances, at some point we wake up and realize that we truly aren't as alone as we thought... that there's at least _one_ person out there who can relate to how we feel. While I've met a few people over the past couple'a years who've been... _altered_, like I have, I never really felt like they'd known what it was like to be in _my_ shoes. But with Amy... I feel like there's someone who truly _understands_. No matter what happens from now on; whether she decides to join us at The Agency or not; I have at least one friend now I can completely relate to.

_Fi_nally... I'm no longer... _alone_."

_**Fin**_


End file.
